The Night of the Silver Arrow
by highlandgypsy
Summary: Jim and Artie get more than they bargained for when they capture a gang of silver thieves in the Wyoming Territory, then join forces with the gang's leader to stop a madman from launching a takeover bid to make the territory a separate nation.
1. Chapter 1

Here's the usual disclaimer: I don't own the rights to any of these characters. I've been immersed in writing Black Sheep Squadron fanfiction for the last two years and took a break from the South Pacific during World War II to try my hand at WWW. I must confess I'm a newcomer to (re)discovering this show so any errors are of my own creation. Reviews are welcome, please and thanks.

 **The Night of the Silver Arrow**

 **Chapter 1**

"Silver arrow through the night,  
Silver arrow take thy flight.  
Silver arrow seek and find  
Cursing heart and cursing mind."  
\- William S. Burroughs

 **3 a.m.**

 **August 1872**

 **Rabbit Gulch, Wyoming Territory**

The lantern flashed, an abnormally large firefly in the late summer night. Once, twice.

 _Finished_.

Then darkness again blanketed the warehouse district near the rail yards.

On a nearby hillside, a figure shifted in the saddle and acknowledged the signal with two flashes from a similar lantern.

 _Get clear._

A match rasped. The tiny flame flickered then burst into a glorious fireball when it was applied to the pitch-soaked rag knotted around the arrow shaft. The horse, a buckskin gelding, tossed his head at the scent of fire but remained steady. The figure raised a bow, sighted down the shaft and gauged distance and breeze as flames caressed slim fingertips. With a fluid motion born of practice, the fingers released the bowstring on an exhalation of breath. Before the string stopped quivering, two more arrows followed, ignited, timed and placed with precision.

The archer felt the bowstring slap against the leather wrist guard and lowered the weapon, smiling with grim satisfaction. Tipped with orange flame, the missiles sliced like meteors through the darkness. They landed with soft thuds the archer could hear from the semi-concealment of the hillside.

Within seconds, the cedar shingles of the warehouse roof ignited. Flames raced along the ridgeline, engulfing the structure. The archer watched the conflagration as it raged. The sight brought no pleasure. It was another step toward frontier justice. Two wrongs might not make a right but they did make a difference. The archer thought the difference between right and wrong largely depended on which side of the law you were on.

Satisfied, the figure drew a final arrow. With a graceful motion, the shaft was nocked and loosed. It sliced the darkness to bury itself in a corral fencepost above the heads of the warehouse guards who had been unceremoniously deposited there, unconscious, bound and gagged, but a safe distance from the fire. Flames from the burning warehouse danced on the silver leaf that had been applied to the knapped flint arrowhead.

The archer sat patiently, a shadow slightly darker than the surrounding night. In the distance, a coyote howled. Then a lantern flashed twice from a neighboring hillside, a repeat of the earlier signal.

 _Ready. Waiting_.

The archer returned the signal.

 _Coming_.

After extinguishing the lantern and tucking it back into a saddlebag, the figure touched light boot heels to the buckskin and was soon swallowed by the night.

By the time the sleepy residents of Rabbit Gulch were woken from their beds to form a fire brigade, the warehouse was fully consumed. Showers of sparks drifted on the breeze and efforts changed from any hope of saving the building to preventing nearby structures from joining it. When untied and roused, the guards remembered nothing, only being struck from behind in the dark. The sheriff yanked the arrow from the fencepost and studied the gleaming silver head.

There was no question. The Robin Hood gang had struck again.

 **XXX**

 **Secret Service Field Office**

 **San Francisco, California**

"I'm sending you boys to the Wyoming Territory. The faster you get there, the better."

"The Wyoming Territory, Colonel? Aren't they up to their backsides in Indian trouble out there?" James West balanced his hat on his knee, his smile impassive, as Colonel Richmond's words sunk in. His barely-healed ribs still ached from the brawl that concluded his and Artie's last assignment. He wasn't crazy about heading into the middle of a bunch of angry Kiowa and Blackfeet but given recent developments, he wasn't crazy about staying here, either. He might be safer with the Kiowa and Blackfeet.

"I was hoping for something a little more . . . ," he paused, searching for the right word, ". . . relaxing."

"Relaxing? I think you've done all the relaxing you need! You are not in any position to argue!" Richmond's voice lowered and he spoke through clenched teeth. "President Grant asked me to impress upon you both that it would be in your best interests to get out of San Francisco. It's entirely possible you have worn out your welcome here. Do I need to remind you, Jim, who Anastasia Thorndyke's father is?"

Jim's smile faded marginally. He cleared his throat.

"No, sir. I would prefer you didn't."

"Then you will accept this assignment and _maybe_ Senator Thorndyke will forget your dalliance with his daughter. And God knows whatever trouble you've been getting into, Artie," Richmond added with a glance at Jim's partner. Artemus Gordon was perched on another chair, trying to look pious. The effect was spoiled by the smile that kept breaking through in spite of efforts to hide it.

"In my defense, Anastasia Thorndyke appeared much older than she actually was," Jim said.

Richmond glared.

"She is Senator Thorndyke's youngest daughter."

"She acted much older."

"His. Very. Youngest. Daughter."

Who had a very diverse skill set, Jim thought, but kept it to himself. There wasn't anything to be gained by pointing out playing the harpsichord and doing needlework were only a few of the girl's talents.

"You were telling us about the trouble in the Wyoming Territory, sir." With a sideways glance at Jim, Artie stepped into the conversation before it could derail further. And to deflect any attention from himself, Jim thought. Artie had been enjoying the company of another of the senator's daughters in a secluded part of the rose garden on the evening in question, he just hadn't gotten caught.

Richmond let out his breath in a huff and dropped the subject of Senator Thorndyke's daughter. Jim would have liked to point out the young lady hadn't been at all opposed to their dalliance. In fact, the walk in the rose garden had been her idea in the first place. What happened after that had shown every indication of becoming a mutually enjoyable evening but looking back, he doubted it was worth being sent into the vipers' nest that was currently the Wyoming Territory. He forced his mind back to what Richmond was saying.

"A gang of ruffians is stealing refined silver out of warehouses in the Trouble River valley before it's to be transported to the U.S. Mint. They've hit five warehouses in the last six weeks. The owner thinks there's Indian involvement and we need to get to the bottom of it. The U.S. Treasury is counting on that silver and the mine owner is near frantic."

"I wasn't aware Wyoming was much of a silver producing state. I thought that was Nevada," Jim said, still idly wondering what else might have happened that evening if Senator Thorndyke hadn't decided to leave the reception and go looking for his flirtatious daughters.

"As a rule, yes. But the Blue Mountain Mining Company has tapped into a vein of exceptionally high quality ore along the Trouble River. Its existence is no secret. The press has been all over it, especially in light of the robberies. This gang is fast. Their timing is impeccable and they don't leave a trail. The local officials are vexed and no one is talking."

Richmond looked from Jim to Artie and back.

"To tell the truth, the area ranchers don't seem to have a problem with it at all and that's got the investigation bottlenecked. These thieves have some sort of 'steal from the rich, give to the poor' approach and that's not setting well with the man who owns Blue Mountain Mining." Richmond handed Jim a slip of paper with an address written on it. "The two of you will meet with the owner – Maurice LeClaire - for the details."

He paused and gave a resigned sigh.

"Jim, if you and Artie could clear up this mess and put an end to these robberies and fires, I'm sure President Grant would be inclined to shush Senator Thorndyke's complaints about your conduct."

"His daughter wasn't complaining. I don't see what the problem is," Jim muttered.

Richmond pretended he didn't hear him.

"Your carriage is waiting. LeClaire is expecting you."

 **XXX**

 **Later that evening**

 **A private home in the Nob Hill District**

 **San Francisco, California**

"That was the third warehouse this month and they took out two the month before! If this keeps up, they'll drive me into ruination!"

The man seated behind the desk was in high dudgeon. He was cadaverously thin and his cheeks were flushed with unhealthy color. Coarse white eyebrows over hooded eyes gave him a vulture-like appearance. His entire being radiated rage at the thieves stealing his hard-earned gains.

From his seat in a wing-backed leather chair, Jim steepled his fingers and looked around the richly appointed room. Ornately carved furniture sat atop a thick Aubusson carpet. Blood red damask draperies framed windows beyond which cold rain was falling. A fire crackled in the hearth, reflecting off the dark walnut paneling and refracting in the crystal chandelier overhead. A portrait of LeClaire himself, looking like a captain of industry, glared with disapproval from a nearby wall. It didn't look like his ruination was imminent.

"Can you tell us a little more about the situation?" Jim asked. So far, LeClaire had been full of a great deal of righteous indignation and very few usable facts.

"They're stealing my silver and giving it to those wretched homesteaders who think they can just stake claims to land with some of the richest mineral rights in the territory. The _Laramie Tribune_ has started calling them the Robin Hood gang. _Robbing_ Hood is more like it. And they're burning my warehouses on top of it all. They're a bunch of hoodlums, I tell you! Thanks to them, I'm teetering on the brink of ruin!"

LeClaire picked up an object from his desk blotter. It glittered in the firelight as he caressed it. It seemed to calm him somewhat.

"Gentlemen," he continued, "this is argentite ore. I'm negotiating a deal to purchase 30,000 acres in the Trouble River valley. When the deal goes through, I'll own the largest silver mining operation in the Wyoming Territory. But these interfering thieves are destroying everything! I've already lost investors who feel the Indian threat there is too risky. Now I'm the target of these saboteurs! If this keeps up, I'm doomed!" He set the chunk of ore down with loving tenderness, then clasped his hands over his eyes, the picture of a businessman in the throes of financial devastation.

Jim chanced a look across the room. Artie's mouth was compressed in a line that did little to prevent the sparkle of humor from reaching his eyes. Artie had spent enough time on the stage to recognize good acting when he saw it. Jim could tell this didn't even come close.

As Jim watched, Artie wrinkled his nose and sniffed delicately, then arched his eyebrows. Jim acknowledged him with a brief nod. He smelled it, too, an odd, cloying odor unlike anything he'd encountered before. It didn't seem to be coming from any specific source, yet it permeated the room. He shrugged his shoulders slightly and put it out of his mind. They weren't here to deal with odd smells.

"What about the Indian threat?" Artie queried.

"We suspect Indians because of the arrows," LeClaire said. "There's no telling what those savages will do next."

"Arrows?" Jim asked. While the Indian population wasn't above reproach, they generally avoided attacking settlements, let alone targeting specific business enterprises. The tribes that called that area home had little use for shiny metal and he doubted LeClaire's problems were Native American in origin.

"The arrows have shown up at every fire." LeClaire snapped his fingers and a hulking man stepped from the shadows. "Nigel, bring me the arrow."

Jim and Artie both startled. The figure had been standing so still he blended into the room's elaborate decoration. LeClaire turned back to the agents seated in front of him. "My manservant, Nigel," he said dismissively.

Manservant? Jim thought. Nigel stood easily over six feet tall, with muscles straining the cloth of his jacket. His face was expressionless, devoid of anything but the mildest awareness of the proceedings. Jim recognized a bodyguard when he saw one, although he wasn't sure why a mining executive would feel the need for a bodyguard in his own sitting room.

Nigel returned with an object and handed it to LeClaire.

"The arrow, sir." His voice was a monotone that matched his expression.

LeClaire held it aloft for the men to see. The flint projectile shimmered unnaturally in the lamplight.

"There's been one like this at every fire."

"May I?" Jim held out his hand.

"Give it to Mr. West," LeClaire said. Wordlessly, Nigel stepped forward and picked up the arrow. He pivoted and carried it to Jim, who took it from him with an acknowledgement of thanks. The man did not reply but stepped silently behind LeClaire's desk, where he stood, hands clasped behind his back.

Jim studied the projectile and noticed with some surprise the flint had been dipped in silver. Firelight chased over the surface as he turned it in his fingers.

"It's like they're leaving a calling card, laughing at me!" LeClaire continued. "That's sterling silver – I've had it analyzed. It's MY sterling sllver! It would take someone with a silversmith's training to create those. I tell you, they're out to get me! They want to ruin my operation and take it all for themselves. I won't let that happen!"

For a second, Jim saw the gleam of insanity in the other man's eyes. It was the madness spawned by lust for a precious metal, he thought, that cold, lifeless material that could drive men insane – or to their death - in their quest to possess it. Then the look was gone and LeClaire was again human.

"In terms of total volume of your mine's output, how much have you lost to this gang?" Artie asked.

LeClaire waved a hand dismissively.

"It's not so much the quantity, it's the quality. They're taking refined ore, you see, the purest form, ready to be pressed into coins or made into fine jewelry or household goods." He stopped and fondled a pair of ornate ink wells atop his desk. "It's a small amount each time, relatively easy to conceal and transport. And to make it worse, no one has any idea if there are two or 20 of them. The guards are always disabled, the silver is taken and the warehouses fired. By the time anyone knows what happened, they've vanished without a trace."

"So this gang has never actually been seen?"

"Not hide nor hair. But my silver keeps reappearing in the hands of those wretched ranchers who refuse to sell me their land. All those damned cattle are grazing on top of one of the richest silver veins in the country. I have my lawyers working day and night to buy them out. The wheels of industry turn slowly on a good day, gentlemen, and time is money."

LeClaire opened his mouth to continue when a young footman in livery entered the room.

"Sir, this just came for you." He held out a telegram. "It's regarding –" He broke off, glancing curiously at Jim and Artie, then with obvious unease, at Nigel. "It's regarding the other matter."

LeClaire waved one hand negligently as he reached for the paper. He read it, his face impassive.

"It makes no difference, Giles. You may speak in front of these gentlemen." He sighed wearily. "Just additional woe in my life. My . . . daughter . . . has vanished. She's been gone for almost six months now. I have a detective working full time on the case but all attempts to find her have failed. This missive," he waved the telegram, "is from him. He says her trail has gone cold. I fear I shall never see the girl again."

LeClaire dropped the telegram into the fire and went back to playing with the lump of ore on his desk, caressing it as if it were a living thing. The footman bowed his way out but not before Jim caught the scathing look he gave his boss and the quick, nervous glance he shot at Nigel.

"How old is she?" Jim asked. Missing daughters were more intriguing than silver thieves.

"How old is who?" LeClaire looked up blankly. "Oh, my daughter. Yes. Right. She's 22. She went to the Wyoming Territory to visit relatives, then just vanished. Pouf. No sign of foul play but I think she could have been lured away by some fast-talking shyster. She's such a fragile little thing, so young and innocent."

"It's none of my business," Jim mused, "but if she's of legal age, maybe she just wanted to travel, see the country." He wouldn't blame anyone for wanting to get away from LeClaire. The man did not strike him as a stable father figure and the house, with its oppressive opulence and lurking bodyguard, would be enough to drive anyone mad.

"I fear she's been kidnapped, although I never got a ransom note," the mining baron sighed. "And she was betrothed to . . . a family friend. They were to be married soon. The poor man is devastated, absolutely heartbroken. Well, enough of that. Can you find out who is sabotaging my warehouses before I lose everything?"

The man switched between oily concern for his missing child and genuine distress about his business ventures with ease, Jim noted. There it was again, that gleam of madness in his eyes when he talked about his silver mines, as if his sanity went in and out of focus. And a betrothal? It wouldn't surprise Jim one bit if the girl found her prospective bridegroom not to her liking and had taken matters into her own hands.

"Where was the latest robbery?" he asked.

"A little outpost called Rabbit Gulch. After the first three fires, I started using warehouses at less populated stops on the rail lines, thinking they would be harder to track but it's like this gang can read my mind. No matter what I do, I can't stop them. I'm begging you, please help me."

 **XXX**

Jim and Artie's boots echoed in the vast marble-tiled foyer as they showed themselves out of LeClaire's home. Rain pounded the roof of the port cochere as they waited for their carriage.

"Mister West? Mister Gordon?" The voice was barely more than a whisper.

They turned to see Giles, the boy who had delivered the telegram. If possible, he looked even more nervous than he had earlier. He glanced around, then approached the men.

"If you go to Trouble River, sirs, be careful. Things aren't . . . right . . . out there."

"What do you mean?" Artie asked.

The young man looked nearly panicked.

"I can't tell you any more. He can't see me talking to you!"

The carriage pulled up at that moment, wheels splashing through the puddles on the cobblestones. Giles turned and bolted.

"What do you suppose he meant by that?" Artie mused, watching him go.

"I think the kid's just scared of his boss and his henchmen," Jim said. "LeClaire's half mad and that house was something out of an Edgar Allen Poe novel."

Artie shrugged and opened the door of the carriage. The men settled against cushioned seats as the cabbie chirped to the horses and they set off for their hotel. They were silent for a few minutes before Artie spoke.

"Did you notice anything odd about that bodyguard?"

"Aside from the impression he was a few bricks short of a full load? No."

"Maybe it was nothing more than that," Artie concurred. "But I was watching him – he seemed incapable of acting unless instructed by LeClaire."

"Bodyguards aren't hired for their keen intellect."

Artie shrugged and switched tacks.

"And what was that smell? I know you noticed it."

Jim nodded.

"Either LeClaire needs to fire his cook or someone was playing with a chemistry set in the basement."

Silence fell again as the carriage rolled through the rain-shrouded streets.

"I hear Wyoming is nice this time of year."

Jim rolled his eyes.

"I can't imagine how nice it's going to be with Indians warring against the settlers and a band of renegades on the loose but at least I won't have an angry senator after my neck."

"Ah, James, always the optimist. That's what I like about you," Artie mused. "Was it just me or did LeClaire seem more concerned about stopping the thieves than finding his daughter?"

Jim shot him another look.

"That girl's probably gone back East to get away from daddy and is having the time of her life. It's been my experience that when we find women who have disappeared, they're never as happy about it as their fathers and husbands expect them to be." He paused. "You know, we never got her name."

"Jim," Artie said in a warning tone. "We're going out there to catch the bandits, not look for that girl."

Jim looked out the carriage window at the rainy night.

"I know. But if our paths cross, I want to know who to stay away from. One outraged father on the war path is enough."

It was Artie's turn to roll his eyes.

 **XXX**

The next morning, the Wanderer steamed away from the fog and cable cars of San Francisco, headed for the cool, late summer landscape of the Wyoming Territory.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

 **Sage Gulch, Wyo.**

Jim nudged a charred beam with the toe of his boot. The wood crumbled and ash swirled in eddies around his feet. Blackjack danced sideways at the acrid scent of burned wood and metal, skittish. Jim quieted the horse and led him along the still-smoking remains of the warehouse. They'd arrived too late. Again.

"I dunno about you, partner, but this is getting old," he said to Artie who had also dismounted to study the ruins.

"It's them all right," Artie affirmed. "The constable said he pulled a silver arrowhead out of the company sign in front of the warehouse. They're not shy about leaving their calling card."

"It's like this gang has someone feeding them information about LeClaire's shipping plans," Jim mused. "They're choosing specific sites, not just hitting warehouses at random, hoping to get lucky."

"We should get someone back in San Francisco to take a closer look at the company's operations," Artie agreed.

"You think it's an inside job?"

"Could be. Maybe a disgruntled employee or – "

Artie was interrupted as a skinny youth dashed up and slid to a stop, nearly toppling into the rubble.

"Are you two West and Gordon?" the boy puffed. Before they could answer, he held out a telegraph flimsy. "This came for you. The sheriff at Cotter's Mill said there's a shipment of silver ore scheduled to load on an eastbound freight tomorrow. Nigh on 200 pounds of high grade refined stuff. And . . ." he paused dramatically, relishing his role in sharing the news, "a group of strangers just rode into town real quiet-like yesterday. Sheriff Campbell ain't made no move yet, figured you boys would want to know. Word travels fast in these parts. The sheriff knew you got here right after the last fire."

The sheriff probably knew they'd been repeatedly skunked when it came to apprehending the thieves, too, Jim thought. This assignment was starting to irritate him. First, he'd been sent out here as a reprimand for making time with the wrong young lady and now these back country renegades were outfoxing him and Artie at every turn. He scowled and eyed the sun.

"How far away is Cotter's Mill?"

"Three hours on a good horse. You'd make it by late afternoon if'n you left now."

"Thank you." Jim flipped the boy a coin. "Send a message to the sheriff and tell him we'll be there in time for supper."

 **XXX**

New faces in the small ranching towns of the Trouble River valley stood out like a whore in church. The three strangers who rode into Cotter's Mill were no exception. Ambrose Blackwell, editor, publisher and chief mugwump at the _Cotter's Mill_ _Gazette,_ noticed the trio of newcomers first. In light of the uproar about the Robin Hood gang - although he wasn't sure three men constituted a gang - he sent his printer's devil to the sheriff's office to report the strangers after one of them came in to buy a copy of the _Gazette_.

The tale tumbled out of the lad's mouth so rapidly, Sheriff Jeremiah Campbell had to tell him to slow down and start over more than once.

 _Yessir, one fellow came into the office to get a paper an' the other two stayed outside, lookin' around, kinda shifty-like. Nosir, couldn't see their faces clear, they wore their hats real low but they looked like drifters. Yessir, they was all three of 'em packin' pistols, but around here, who ain't? Nosir, they didn't talk to no one else, just Mr. Blackwell. They said they was three brothers, lookin' for work. Then they strolled around the town for a while before ridin' off. Nice horses they had, too, a bay and a chestnut with white socks and a real fine buckskin._

Sheriff Campbell sent a telegraph to the Secret Service agents he knew were investigating the warehouse fire at Sage Gulch. Three hours later, he met Jim and Artie when they rode into town.

 **XXX**

Three to two cast the odds slightly in their opponents' favor but Jim thought the odds could go hang. He and Artie had come close to catching these outlaws three times over the last two weeks – at Brighton's Hollow, Crystal Creek and again in Sage Gulch – only to have them slip through their hands like wraiths. The gang seemed to be privy to the details of LeClaire's shipping schedule, while he and Artie did little more than show up while smoke was still rising from the ashes. When he got his hands on their leader, the guy was going to have a lot of questions to answer.

LeClaire was right, the bandits were good. But how could three men have wreaked so much havoc on the mining operation? They weren't taking huge quantities of the mine output, just select bits of refined material. While that was more valuable than the bulk ore, Jim thought the real impact of the thefts was more mental than financial. They represented something the mine owner couldn't control and he had recognized LeClaire's lust for all-controlling power within minutes of meeting him.

The string of burned warehouses up and down the Trouble River valley _did_ represent a financial blow, however, and LeClaire had monitored the agents' progress, or lack of it, with a great deal of hand-wringing and anguished moans about the imminent demise of his business. He had not mentioned his missing daughter again.

Now, as Jim moved through the shadows behind the warehouse, he thought they'd finally caught a break. He approached the tree he'd scouted earlier, its low, wide branches spreading close to several open windows under the eaves. He checked his watch by the thin light of a rising quarter moon. It was barely past sunset. The gang struck with no rhyme or reason when it came to time. They crept in like thieves in the night or attacked boldly during the day. He and Artie agreed they should get into position as soon as possible when they got to town. After that, it would be a waiting game.

He placed a booted foot on the tree trunk and grasping a branch, scrambled nimbly upward. Maneuvering along the limbs, he dropped through an open window into the loft and paused to get his bearings. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he heard the scrape of wood and the building's front door eased open.

Jim ducked behind a stack of crates although he doubted anyone could see him even if he stood up and waved his hat. Visibility in the cavernous gloom was so low he could barely see his hand in front of his face. A tall, broad-shouldered figure was silhouetted briefly in the doorway, then slipped inside, pulling the door shut behind it. Jim heard boots cross the plank floor and within seconds, he felt the breath of outside air as the teamsters' entrance at the back of the building opened. The interior of the warehouse became marginally less dark. He heard the soft creak of saddle leather, then more footsteps and quiet voices drifted upward.

Metal rasped against metal. Jim peered around the crates to see three men gathered around the tiny circle of light from a smuggler's lantern. With the lantern held low, they began searching the warehouse, systematically working their way along the stacks of merchandise to be shipped out on the next day's train.

Jim let out the breath he'd been holding. They'd been cutting it fine but he'd gotten into the warehouse before the thieves arrived and that was all that mattered. It wasn't a guarantee of success but for the first time since he and Artie took this assignment, they were one step ahead of the gang. Now he was counting on his partner's impeccable timing to set things in motion.

Right on cue, Artie threw open the warehouse's front door and stumbled inside. He was wearing a prospector's uniform of frayed trousers and a buffalo-checked flannel shirt held up with suspenders. A gray wig under a floppy hat completed his disguise and he brandished what appeared to be a half-empty bottle of whisky in one hand. Lurching, he caught himself on one of the interior beams and waved the bottle.

"Barkeep, I need a . . . need a refill!" he slurred. "Hey, this isn't the saloon!"

One of the bandits slammed the lantern closed, covering the flame and plunging the warehouse into darkness again.

"It's only the town drunk," another said. "Put the light back on, Luke, before he falls on you, then get him out of here. He can join the guards outside for a little nap."

Nails screeched against wood as the speaker pried the lid off a crate.

"Found it!" he hissed triumphantly. He turned to the slightest of the three figures. "Go on, Jess. Get outside and get your arrows ready. It won't take long to load this up."

Artie reeled across the floor and clutched another of the support beams.

"But I don't need a nap, I need a drink!" He sounded like he was three sheets in the wind.

Jim crouched in the shadows of the loft, grinning in spite of the seriousness of the situation. His partner was the consummate actor.

"You need to leave, old man," one of the men said, although not unkindly. "The saloon is down the street. That way." He pointed.

Artie scratched his head and looked confused.

"This isn't the saloon? Are you sure?" He hiccupped. "It was the saloon yesh . . . yeshterday." He lifted the bottle as if to gauge its contents. "I think."

"It ain't the saloon. Now get out before we throw you out."

"What'r you boys doin' in here? Is there a party?"

"No! You heard him - get out." The second man stepped up. "We don't want to hurt you."

Artie stumbled closer. From his perch, Jim saw the two largest members of the gang advancing on him. The third man hesitated, apparently waiting to see how things played out.

Artie brandished his whisky bottle.

"Have a drink with me, boys. Then I'll be gone and you can have your secret party." He looked around. "Not much of a party if you ask me. You don' even have a cake."

By now, he had staggered within a few feet of the men. He waved the bottle in invitation.

"Aw, come on, I don't have anyone to share my whisky with since my mule died."

The two men exchanged glances. Artie uncorked the bottle and offered it with a friendly gesture. A faint greenish shimmer of fumes rose from the opening and with a practiced flick of his wrist, he wafted it under the men's noses. They staggered, swaying, then collapsed to the floor, unconscious. The lantern tumbled from a limp hand and went out.

The third man swore and turned to run.

"You! Stop!" Jim yelled, leaping from the loft to a stack of crates and then to the floor. Experience taught him fleeing criminals had notoriously bad hearing unless they heard a hammer being drawn back but he hesitated to pull his Colt in the dark warehouse. Artie was somewhere in the shadows, dealing with the two downed men.

The remaining thief was shorter than the first two and slightly built. He was dressed like any other anonymous frontier drifter, with a worn leather vest over a sun-bleached chambray shirt tucked into buckskin breeches and tall leather boots. His face was covered with a bandana and he wore a slouch hat pulled low over his forehead. The only thing remarkable about him was the way he moved. This one was light on his feet, with a catlike grace that had Jim re-evaluating his tactics.

As he dismissed brute force for a more refined approach, the thief whipped a hand into the front of his vest and extracted something that gleamed in the dim light. Jim heard the whistle of the blade slicing through the air almost before his eyes registered it had been thrown. He flung himself out of the missile's trajectory and it buried itself in the wall behind him where it hung, quivering. He saw the thief reach into his vest again.

"Artie, look out!"

The words were no sooner out of his mouth than the thief sliced a second knife in the direction where his partner was tying up the two unconscious bandits. Artie flattened himself and rolled. The knife stuck in the floor nearby with an audible twang.

Jim advanced on the figure, deliberately keeping himself between the thief and the open back door. Thin moonlight cast shadows that leaped and danced with every movement.

The thief grabbed a broom leaning in a corner. He angled the bristles against the floor and slammed a booted foot at the joint where they attached to the handle. The broom head snapped off and the thief spun the long wooden handle in front of him like a staff. Emboldened by the possession of a weapon, he advanced, clearly intending the fight his way to the horses tethered just outside the door.

Jim angled around him, looking for an opening to take him down while drawing him away from Artie, who was still tying up the men in the darkness. The thief backed up slowly, blocking Jim's feints. They maneuvered in silence for a few minutes, as if taking one another's measure, then without warning, the figure swung the staff in a wicked overhand arc that would have knocked Jim into next week if it had connected. He pivoted at the last second and felt the rush of air as the handle whistled by his ear. He was a fraction too slow, though, and the staff glanced painfully off his left elbow, reducing his hand and forearm to pins and needles.

The thief had expected the blow to stop him and when it didn't, Jim took advantage of his opponent's momentary uncertainty. He launched a series of fast, one-handed offensive blows even though his numb left arm was essentially useless, handicapping his efficiency. The figure stayed on the defensive, never counter-attacking but continuing a relentless push toward the door and wielding the broom handle staff with an unexpected degree of skill. Just as Jim thought he'd found an opening to land a punch, the figure rapped the staff sharply against the knuckles of his left hand, splitting skin and sending fresh pain lancing clear to his shoulder. He snarled an epithet. Enough was enough. He leaped onto a crate, looped his good arm around one of the loft trusses and launched a flying side kick that shattered the wooden handle.

The thief hurled the two halves of the ruined staff at him with a hiss of irritation and bolted in a bee-line toward the open door. Jim charged after him. The thief leaped onto the stack of straw bales in his path, then quick as a cat, spun around and kicked out hard. Jim's momentum carried him straight into the blow as the bandit slammed both boot heels hard into his solar plexus.

He staggered back, cartwheeling for balance and trying to pull air into deflated lungs. The slight figure leaped down from the crates and darted out the door only to run headlong into Artie, who'd circled around the building after securing the first two men.

For a second, they grappled in a mad dance but the bandit slipped loose and dashed again toward the horses. Artie lunged but the thief dodged and spun, swinging out a foot. Artie tripped. Arms windmilling, he pitched headlong into the water trough. Without hesitating, the figure sprinted to the hitching rack and yanked loose the reins of the nearest horse.

Jim staggered out of the warehouse, air still whistling in his lungs, to see the thief with a foot in the stirrup of the buckskin's saddle. In one furious stride, he caught him by the back of the collar and yanked him off the horse with every intention of laying him out. LeClaire said he wanted them alive. He hadn't said anything about unbruised. The bandit twisted with the agility of a cat and lashed upward with a booted foot. Jim swore, twisting, and the boot slammed hard into his upper thigh instead of its intended goal. That was the final straw. He grabbed the smaller figure around the waist and jerked him off his feet.

In the ensuing tussle, he used his left forearm, still half useless from the bruised nerves in his elbow and throbbing from the split knuckles, to slam the thief against the warehouse wall, then got a grip on the loose fabric of his shirt front with his good hand. The combatant let out a shriek of indignation and Jim realized he was gripping something entirely unexpected. The figure went rigid.

Jim relaxed his hand, then flexed his fingers gently. The soft fullness against them was unmistakable. He reached up and yanked down the bandana. Furious jade green eyes glared at him from a dirt-smudged face. The third thief was a girl. He hadn't seen _that_ coming.

He had a glimpse of those eyes framed by dark lashes, fair skin and full lips drawn back in a snarl before the girl wrenched free of his hand and smashed her elbow into his face. He reeled back, tasting blood, but redoubled his grip, careful to only grab fabric this time. She tried frantically to pull loose and he heard cloth tearing. It was like trying to hold onto a greased pig at the county fair. Jim toppled her off balance and they both tumbled to the ground. Abandoning any pretense of propriety, he rolled her onto her back and threw his full weight on top of her. Only then did she stop struggling.

"Ouch! Get off! You're hurting me."

"Then stop fighting!" he growled through clenched teeth. He was breathing hard, he'd lost his hat and his temper was about to join it. The girl went limp under him. Her vest was askew and her shirt had popped several buttons, revealing the full curve of her breast. Jim averted his eyes, then jerked them back.

"Pardon me," he said with icy politeness, and plucked a folded sheet of paper from where it was tucked into the lace of her camisole. He shook it open, his mouth hardening into a thin line as he scanned the first few lines of telegrapher's type.

BRIGHTON'S HOLLOW AUG 3

CRYSTAL CREEK AUG 9

SAGE GULCH AUG 14

COTTERS MILL AUG 17

There was more but he didn't take the time to read it all.

"Artie?" he called. "I think we found Robin Hood. We'll leave the other two men in the custody of Sheriff Campbell but she's coming with us to answer some questions."

" _She_? Are you sure?" Artie's voice issued from the vicinity of the horse trough. Splashing noises ensued.

Jim made a face in the dark.

"Yeah. Trust me."

The girl rolled onto her stomach and started kicking her feet against Jim's back. Gripping her wrists with one hand, he twisted around and smacked her backside.

"Stop that!" he snarled.

"Ouch!" She shrieked again, continuing to writhe and kick. "Damnit, get off me!"

"Artie! What's taking you so long?" Jim yelled. He could feel blood trickling from his lip where she'd elbowed him. His abs throbbed and his left arm was still pins and needles. He was going to have a hell of a bruise where she'd kicked him on his upper thigh, although that was better than the alternative. He was seriously re-thinking his rule about not hitting women.

"I'm sure you can hold onto a girl for a few more minutes," Artie called cheerfully. "I promise not to tell Richmond."

"You're all heart." Jim shifted his balance, pinning the struggling girl between his knees and holding her slim wrists behind her back with his right hand.

"If you don't quit hollering, I'm going to smack your ass again. If you didn't like it the first time, I promise you won't like it any better the second."

The girl let loose with a torrent of invective. Jim recognized the Gaelic and he didn't have to speak the language to understand an insult when he heard one. He suspected she'd just told him to do something that was anatomically impossible. Without hesitation, he brought the flat of his palm down on her buckskin clad buttocks again. She howled, whether with pain or fury, he wasn't sure but it was loud enough to wake the dead. He clamped his free hand over her mouth. She bit him.

"Artie, where the hell are you? Hurry up with that knock-out juice."

Artie climbed out of the trough and sloshed his way toward them. He paused to study the situation as he fished the whisky bottle from his dripping trousers.

"Say, do you know your lip is bleeding?" he said conversationally.

"I'm aware of it."

"She's a cute little thing. Are you sure she's the one we want to keep for questioning?"

The girl let loose with another string of angry words. Artie chuckled.

"You understand her?" Jim wasn't surprised. The older man was fluent in a number of languages but he hadn't known Gaelic was one of them.

"We toured with a company from Edinburgh for a season and I picked up a bit." He spoke a few words. The girl hurled them back in his face. He chuckled appreciatively. "She's not too impressed with you."

"The feeling is mutual. Here. Read this." Jim shook out the paper he'd taken from her and handed it to Artie. He watched his friend's eyes scan the content, then darken with understanding.

"It's a manifest confirming the shipping schedule for the Blue Mountain Mining Company's outputs for the entire month. This is everything the gang would need to coordinate the robberies."

"Did you find anything on the other two?"

"No. Their pockets were empty." Artie surveyed the disheveled figure pinned in the dirt. "Looks like she's the leader, all right."

The girl didn't say anything. Artie pulled the cork out of the bottle. He and Jim reflexively held their breath as he waved the bottle under the girl's nose. She passed out almost immediately.

Jim stood and lifted her in his arms. Now that she wasn't actively trying to incapacitate him, he admitted Artie was right. Even in torn and dirty clothing she exuded a reckless sensuality that would make any man look twice. He imagined that allure would vanish the instant she regained consciousness because he had no doubt she'd try to take up exactly where she'd left off.

"Let's get those fellows delivered to Sheriff Campbell and get her back to the train," he said. "I'd prefer to be underway before she comes around."

 **XXX**

She woke to darkness, surprisingly clear headed for having been drugged, and lay still, trying to get her bearings. She was on her stomach, her cheek pressed against upholstery that smelled not unpleasantly of leather, cigar smoke and ever so faintly of gun oil. She felt familiar rhythmic rocking. A train. She was on a moving train.

She wiggled. Her hands were bound behind her back. She flexed her legs. They were bound at the ankles. The bindings weren't painfully tight, just snug enough to make a point. She was clearly a prisoner. She rolled to her left and pressed up hard against more of the upholstery. A couch? Twisting in frustration, she rolled to the right and toppled off, landing with a thud and an expletive on the carpet.

A lazy laugh sounded out of the darkness.

"Going somewhere?"

She froze. The voice was dismayingly familiar. Footfalls crossed the floor and stopped in front of her. She still couldn't see anything. Not because it was dark, she realized, but because she was blindfolded. She let out a small, angry sound at the helplessness of her situation.

More laughter, the smug, self-assuredness of a man who was in control and knew there wasn't a damned thing she could do about it.

"Would you like some help?"

The tone was somewhere between mocking and sincere. More of the former than the latter, she thought. She clenched her jaw, determined to stay quiet.

Strong hands gripped her upper arms and lifted her back onto the couch. She sat as straight and still as she could, trying to muster her dignity even though she was trussed up like a Christmas goose. The hands loosened the knotted cloth behind her head and it fell back around her neck. She realized she'd been blindfolded with her own bandanna.

She blinked, stunned, at the handsomely chiseled features of the face only inches away. Steely bluegreen eyes held hers, unblinking.

"Oh God," she muttered. "Not you again."

"I could say the same thing," he countered. His smile was feral. "Now you're going to answer some questions for me."

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

The girl sat stiffly on the couch in front of him, her bearing haughty considering she was tied hand and foot. Her expression was a blend of fear and fury, her green eyes glacial. Jim had seen rabid wolves who looked friendlier. The most dangerous animal, he thought, was one that was cornered.

At the sound of footsteps, both he and the girl turned to see Artie enter the room. He wore a brown silk print dressing gown and was toweling his hair dry. Humor twitched the edges of Jim's mouth in spite of his resolve not to show any emotion in front of their prisoner.

"How many baths do you need in one day?"

"Being dunked in a horse trough does not constitute a bath," Artie said with dignity. "Well, look who's awake! I thought you might sleep the night away."

The girl glared at him. For reasons he couldn't explain, Jim was pleased she didn't seem any happier to see Artie than she had been to see him.

"I'm afraid you gentlemen have me at a disadvantage." The faintest trace of a Scottish burr clung to her voice. "I've not made the pleasure of your acquaintance." Her tone indicated any degree of pleasure was doubtful.

Jim leaned back against the billiards table and crossed his arms. Artie finished drying his hair and tossed the towel over the back of a chair.

"You could at least untie her," he said conversationally.

"I like her better when she's tied up." Jim ran fingers across his lower lip. It was split. He could feel bruises blooming where her well-placed boots had struck his gut. And his thigh. And where the staff had connected with his elbow and knuckles. Damned if he was going to untie her. She could just sit there for a while.

"Really, Jim, I don't think she's going to get away from us in here." Artie shook his head and stepped behind her. With a few deft tugs, he removed the ties binding her hands. She sat, rubbing her wrists, eyes darting around the interior of the varnish car, looking like a wild thing trying to find a place to go to ground. Slowly, she bent to untie her ankles, watching to see if either man was going to stop her. They didn't, although Jim still wasn't sure turning her loose was a good idea. He wouldn't put it past her to throw herself off the train.

She straightened, defiant.

"What have you done with William and Luke?"

Her voice snapped like a whip but Jim could hear the thread of fear under the bravado.

"They're guests of the constabulary in Cotter's Mill," he said.

"My horse! Where's my horse?" Her voice was edged with panic now and it didn't escape Jim's notice that her level of concern for her horse was a little higher than it had been for her accomplices.

"He's in the stable car with ours. I unsaddled him myself. He's a nice animal," he said grudgingly. The buckskin was indeed a nice animal. Clean limbed and hard muscled, the creature radiated power and speed. Jim was glad the evening hadn't come to an overland chase. They'd probably still be going. He shifted, wincing. And it probably wouldn't have been as painful.

The girl relaxed marginally.

"What do you want?" She held his eyes, scared but still defiant.

"We want you to answer some questions, then we'll decide what we're going to do with you. Let's start with your name."

She seemed to weigh the wisdom of saying anything.

"Tell me yours first."

Jim glared at her.

"That's not how this works. I'm the one who gets to ask the questions. Now tell me your name."

The girl crossed her arms and said nothing.

Artie stepped into the stony silence.

"I'm Artemus Gordon, this is James West. We're special agents with the United States Secret Service. Would you like something to eat, Miss . . . ?" He let the question of her name hang in the air.

Sudden insight crossed the girl's face in a fleeting shadow.

"So he complained loudly enough the U.S. government came to investigate, how ironic," she muttered, more to herself than to either of the men. Then, bluntly and without apology, she continued. "My name is Jessie McCallister. My mother was married to Maurice LeClaire. I'm responsible for the robberies and fires at the Blue Mountain warehouses. And yes, I would very much like something to eat."

Silence filled the car as both men absorbed these disjointed statements.

 _My mother was married to Maurice LeClaire._ Jim's mind spun. Was _this_ LeClaire's missing daughter? This reckless little hellion? That family tree was full of nuts. He met Artie's eyes and saw an equal amount of surprise.

Artie recovered first.

"See, Jim, you catch more flies with honey than you do with vinegar. Let me finish dressing and I'll whip up something for a late dinner. We'll continue this discussion over a meal." He glanced at his partner, then at Jessie. "I'll be back in a few minutes. If we don't tie you up again, do you promise not to hurt him?"

For the first time since she'd regained consciousness, Jessie McCallister smiled. Genuine humor softened the planes of her face, adding a sparkle to her eyes and emphasizing the sensual curve of her mouth. Jim scowled at the realization this transformation had come largely at his expense.

"I promise to behave," she said, looking up at him through dark lashes. "You can trust me."

He forced his own features to stay impassive.

"No," he said, "I can't."

She was nothing but trouble and he wasn't about to turn his back on her no matter how fine she looked, whether she was tied up or not.

 **XXX**

The girl ate like a field hand. She put away two servings of Artie's excellent beef Wellington, mashed potatoes, three biscuits with butter and jam and a bowl of wild greens dressed with vinaigrette. Her eyes grew wide when the dessert appeared, slices of deep-dish apple pie topped with ice cream, and she tucked into it with gusto. She said very little during the meal, answering the agents' questions with one or two-word answers, which wasn't surprising, given the volume of food she was consuming.

Jim noticed although she'd scrubbed her hands and face before the meal, her shirt was frayed and grimy. Her skin had a healthy, sun-brushed glow but her cheekbones showed in sharp relief and she ate with a wary look as if she expected them to take away the food at any second. If she had chosen the life of an outlaw on purpose, she had paid the price. Life on the run was rarely posh and if she really was LeClaire's daughter, she had sacrificed the comfort and wealth of her social station for what she believed was a noble cause. She'd said little more about the thefts during the meal, only insisted neither she nor the other members of the gang had kept any of the silver but distributed it among ranch families in the area.

He wondered if she were as obsessed with her mission to spread the wealth of her father's mines as her father was to hoard it. He and Artie had interviewed half a dozen ranch families in the Trouble River valley during their pursuit of the gang and they all told the same story. Sacks of silver coins appeared mysteriously, sitting atop upturned milk buckets, tucked into laundry baskets by clotheslines, waiting by the axe on the woodpile. No one saw anything. Or if they did, they weren't talking - saying only that the money had come during a time of crisis and their very livelihoods had depended on it. No degree of additional questioning yielded further information. Jim didn't blame them. If mysterious bags of coins showed up when he needed them, no strings attached, he wouldn't look too closely for the source either.

The girl seated across the table was a conundrum. LeClaire was a French name but she spoke fluent Gaelic. And she said her last name was McCallister, not LeClaire. Had she married? She was too young to marry. Well, no, she wasn't, he reflected. Girls married early on the frontier. She was plenty old enough.

Even though it was lank and dirty, her hair was deep auburn with chestnut highlights. She had beautiful skin, now she'd washed at least the top layer of grime off it, and her bone structure had both strength and elegance. Her green eyes slanted ever so slightly, adding to that impression of feline grace he'd noticed in the warehouse. In spite of her rough clothing and general air of dishabille, she carried herself with a bearing that dared him to dare touch her. Like he was in any hurry to try that again.

"I'm his stepdaughter. When he married my mother, I didn't take his last name."

Jim jerked unconsciously. Was she psychic?

"I suppose he neglected to tell you that," she continued, scooping up the last fragments of piecrust and melted ice cream with a spoon. "I'm sure he's been crying crocodile tears over my disappearance."

"Mr. LeClaire has expressed concern for your welfare."

Jessie made a small, derisive sound.

"With all due respect, Mr. West, I doubt that very much." She set down her spoon. "Maurice LeClaire is my stepfather. He married my mother six years ago after my father died. I was 16. She died from influenza within the first year of their marriage. LeClaire owns half the mineral rights in the Wyoming Territory but it's not enough for him. So I ran away."

Again, a series of disjointed sentences that apparently made perfect sense to her and no one else.

"Please go on," Artie said when Jim didn't respond.

"It was arranged that I would marry one of my stepfather's . . .," she paused, her features twisting in disgust, " _associates_ as part of a land deal so he could acquire another 30,000 acres along the Trouble River basin. I was essentially auctioned to the highest bidder."

"And I take it you didn't want to marry the gentleman with the biggest bank account?" Jim asked.

"Baron Heinrich Von Krauss is no gentleman. He's 30 years older than me and his two previous wives died under mysterious circumstances. Thanks but no thanks."

"Was there someone you _did_ want to marry?" Jim had no idea what the girl's relationships might have to do with her running around the Wyoming Territory, sabotaging her stepfather's business, but his earlier line of questioning had gotten him nowhere.

Jessie didn't say anything. She sipped her coffee, eyes gone distant. Then she set her cup down on the saucer with a resounding clink.

"That was an excellent meal, Mr. Gordon. I appreciate it very much. I'd like to see my horse now. Please." Her tone indicated the conversation was over. Jim decided not to push. He had a lot of questions to ask her that had nothing to do with running away to avoid an unwanted suitor and everything to do with missing silver and arson.

"Jim, why don't you take her back to the horses? Unless you'd rather take a turn at washing dishes." Artie gestured at the littered table.

Jim stood.

"Come on, this way."

 **XXX**

Jessie inhaled deeply as they stepped into the stable car. The scent and sound of horses munching hay wrapped around her like a welcome embrace. Jim let go of his iron grip on her arm and shut the door. A sleek buckskin gelding was stalled between a magnificent black and a gleaming chestnut, unsaddled and pulling contentedly at a hay net. He nickered when he saw her.

Mindful of the tight quarters and the rocking train, Jessie stepped carefully into the stall. She took in the full hay net, a bucket of water secured in the opposite corner and the thick bedding of straw. Whatever else these men were, they knew how to care for their animals.

"Hello, Diamond," she whispered. "How are you?"

The horse dropped his head and nudged her gently in the chest. She wrapped her arms around his neck and fought the tears scalding the back of her eyelids, refusing to let them roll down her cheeks.

Their luck had run out.

What had started as a fly-by-night act of defiance had ended with Will and Luke sitting in jail. Why hadn't they stopped sooner? They'd be lucky to escape the hangman's noose. It had been such a lark until Daniel got killed. Now all she had left of him were a handful of memories and his horse.

And her? She'd been caught red-handed at the scene of the crime with the shipping manifest on her person and a silver-tipped arrow in the quiver hanging from Diamond's saddle. It wouldn't take long before West and Gordon handed her back to her stepfather who wouldn't waste any time dragging her down the aisle of Saints Peter and Paul Church, straight into the clutches of Baron Von Krauss. She'd rather have a rope necklace, too, she thought bitterly, unable to hold back a sob.

"Are you all right?"

Jim's voice cut into her fog of despair. She swallowed and wiped hastily at her eyes.

"I'm fine."

"You don't sound fine."

She didn't say anything. She doubted he cared. That wasn't his job.

"Why'd you do it? Why'd you leave wealth and privilege in San Francisco to come out here and end up on the wrong side of the law?"

Jessie studied his face. How could he stand there, so damnably cool and accuse her of breaking the law when her stepfather was doing something a thousand times worse? His features were an unreadable mask and she felt a surge of irrational anger flood through her.

"Maurice LeClaire is certifiably insane. He hired crooked lawyers to force families off their homesteads so he could get the land and the mineral rights," she snapped. "Dozens of families were told their deeds weren't legally binding and unless they could pay some ridiculous fee to have them re-drawn, they'd forfeit their land. Of course no one could afford the fees. If they wouldn't leave, he burned them out or poisoned their wells. One by one, the families I grew up with lost their ranches. Some of them were second generation homesteaders."

"Wait," Jim interrupted. "The families you grew up with? Aren't you from San Francisco?"

"No." Jessie shook her head. She continued, calmer now, "My parents moved to Wyoming from Missiouri when I was little. We were already there when Congress passed the Homestead Act of 1862. Mama and Daddy staked their claim and started the McCallister Cattle Company."

He motioned for her to go on. His expression hadn't softened any but at least he seemed willing to listen to her side of the story.

"I'd just turned 16 when Papa took sick and died. Mama and I went to San Francisco that winter to stay with her sister. That's where she met LeClaire. He was nice enough, at first, but the only thing he knew about cattle was how to order a steak in a restaurant. Mama fell in love with him, though. Or maybe she fell in love with the idea of being a woman of refinement, not a cattleman's wife any longer. I think he only loved her because of the land she owned out here. " She sighed, bitter memories clogging her mind like smoke. "Anyway, they got married, we stayed in San Francisco and Mama hired a foreman to manage the ranch back home. California was nice enough but I missed Wyoming. I missed . . .," her voice faded. It was none of Jim West's business what she missed.

"Mama died in an influenza epidemic the year I graduated from high school. LeClaire said I should go to college back East. He paid for it. He said it would make me a well-rounded young woman." She snorted. "He was already setting me up to be married off. I was just a pawn in his business dealings. By the time I finished college, the Trouble River silver vein had been discovered. A big chunk of it lay under McCallister land that was mine by rights but LeClaire's lawyers made sure it passed to him instead. My parents were both dead and I had nothing. His mining company was working the vein but he only owned the north end of the valley. He wanted all of it. Not just our land but the whole thing. Greed consumed him like a cancer. It's not a pleasant thing to watch someone go mad."

"What took you back to Trouble River from California?" He seemed genuinely interested now, not just humoring her.

"Daniel - ," Jessie paused, struggling with her emotions as the story spilled out. "He was . . . we were . . . he lived on a neighboring ranch and we were sweet on each other growing up. After Pa died and Mama and I moved to California, Danny and I kept in touch. After both my parents were gone, he wrote to tell me what was happening out here." Her voice was stronger now, the anger rising again. "That's when I came back to Wyoming – I told my stepfather I was going to visit relatives. Danny got the idea to steal the silver and give it back to the ranchers so they could hire their own lawyers. Will and Luke's folks had already lost their land, so they joined us, too. We made a pact to give ranchers enough money so they could fight back. Giles, one of my stepfather's servants, sent me the manifests for each shipment. He'd watched LeClaire slowly go mad and wanted to help us."

She finger combed the buckskin's dark mane, picking at imaginary burrs.

"We weren't trying to be heroes. We just thought if our neighbors could afford lawyers to fight back, maybe LeClaire would back off. We only took the refined ore. We could get thousands of dollars worth into our saddlebags every time we hit a warehouse."

Jim's face remained neutral. She continued. He might as well hear the rest of it.

"I don't think LeClaire even noticed at first. We had a little place up in the hills where we hid out between heists. I'd spent five years around my stepfather's business and I knew enough about silversmithing to mint the coins."

"Wait – _you_ minted those coins? The ones you gave the homesteaders?"

 _That_ got a reaction. Jim straightened from where he'd been lounging against the wall. He looked intrigued and slightly impressed. "Counterfeiting's a federal offense, you know."

Jessie shrugged.

"I didn't do anything wrong. Counterfeits are fakes – those coins were real silver. They were the real thing." She saw him raise his eyebrows. It was clear he didn't share her loose interpretation of what constituted counterfeiting.

"We distributed it up and down the valley. The ranchers got their own lawyers and fought back. We made it a point not to hurt anyone if we didn't have to." She leaned against the buckskin, who shifted comfortably to accommodate her weight. "We'd ride into a town before a shipment was scheduled and check it out, just drifters looking for work. We said we were all brothers and were looking to hire on with a local cattle outfit. No one ever questioned us. Will and Luke _are_ brothers. I kept a low profile."

"What about Daniel? What -?"

Jessie interrupted him.

"I'd telegraph Giles from wherever we were and he'd send me the time tables and shipping schedules. Most of the warehouse security was incompetent. We were good." She shook her head with rueful pride. "It got to be almost like a game, we were that good. Sometimes I'd dress up and distract the guards while the boys pulled off the heist. Other times, one of the boys would show up at the warehouse with a bottle of whisky and get the night watchmen all drunk. Will can drink anyone under the table. Sometimes we'd just go in the middle of the night and steal it right under their noses. It was like taking candy from a baby."

She gave the buckskin a final scratch and left the stall. She stroked the chestnut in the next stall. The horse sniffed interestedly at her hair.

"This is Mr. Gordon's horse, isn't it?" she said.

"Yeah. That's Liberty. How'd you know?"

Jessie scratched the horse's ears.

"He's friendly."

Jim scowled.

"What about torching the warehouses?" he asked. "Didn't it bother you that you were destroying other businessmen's goods?"

"They were usually empty, except for the silver. LeClaire kept the mining operation as low key as he could. He wanted it all for himself, didn't want to draw attention from any competing companies. He won't stop until he owns everything. He is truly mad. I don't know . . ." she hesitated, her breath catching, " . . . I don't know if what we did made things better or worse."

"What about your trademark, the silver arrows?"

Jessie's smile was humorless.

"It was a statement. I cast the arrow tips. I guess I was half-way hoping he'd figure out it was me." She paused. "Every warehouse that went up in flames meant more families who could keep their ranches."

"So why did you keep going? Surely by now you've, ah, re-purposed enough of the silver to buy security for the families who homesteaded at Trouble River."

Jesse looked up. When she spoke, her voice was steel.

"LeClaire's men killed my husband and they killed my horse. That's when it got personal."

This time there was no hiding the surprise that registered on Jim's face.

"Your husband?" He looked at her left hand, where her fingers were combing Liberty's forelock.

"I'm 22 years old, Mr. West, that's practically a spinster out here."

"You're not wearing a ring."

Jessie shrugged.

"We were married by a justice of the peace in Laramie. I didn't take Danny's last name. We weren't sure what the future was going to bring. We had two months together before he died. We were always on the run, living rough, but we had plans for what we'd do when it was over. We were going to combine his family's land and mine and continue the ranches our parents started. After he was killed, Will and Luke and I figured LeClaire owed us. The four of us had been best friends since childhood. We don't take friendships lightly here in Wyoming."

Jessie fell silent, remembering that night. The blood and terror, screaming as her rugged little mustang fell, shot out from under her as they fled from the robbery gone so terribly wrong. She'd leaped out of the saddle, knowing Rogue was dead before he hit the ground. She saw Danny turn back for her, saw his body jerk as the bullet struck him. He'd managed to pull her up behind him on Diamond and she'd held him upright as they raced for their bolt hole in the hills. They didn't dare stop even though she felt his blood pouring from the hole in his chest. She'd known even as the wind tore bitter tears from her eyes how it would end.

"He died in my arms," she said, returning to the present. "We buried him in an unmarked grave in the hills near Dusty Run." Biting her lip, she turned and pounded her fist into the wood of the stall divider. "We made it a point never to kill anyone! Danny never should have died!" She hit the wood again, harder, forcing back tears.

"Don't." Jim reached out and took her hands. "You'll just hurt yourself."

She stood, rigid, for a moment, then relaxed. He let go of her.

"I'm sorry for your loss." His words were perfunctory but she appreciated the effort.

"Thank you." She didn't know what else to say. Danny's death still haunted her. Had it been her fault? No. She and the other two boys had agreed as her tears fell on the unmarked grave – they were all in this together. It could have happened to any of them. They would keep going until there was no chance of LeClaire destroying any more families' lives.

She took a deep breath, slapped the chestnut's neck and turned to the black's stall. His coat gleamed like a raven's wing in the lantern light. The horse laid his ears back and stamped one foot irritably.

"He's yours, isn't he?" she said.

"Mmm-hmm. Blackjack. He's not fond of strangers."

Jessie didn't move. The horse tossed his head, showing the white of his eye. She murmured to him, a string of quiet, lilting words. The black flicked his ears forward and dipped his head. She reached out one hand, let him snuffle her palm, then stroked his glossy neck.

"What did you say to him?" Jim's voice was curious.

"I told him he was gorgeous and to stop being an asshole."

That got no reply. Jesse scratched the horse's ears, gathering her thoughts. She swore both the man and the horse were studying her with the same wary expression. She decided she'd said all she had to say.

"Where are my saddlebags?" she asked. "I have some fresh clothes in them and I'd like to clean up, if it's not asking too much for more hot water."

"Sure." Jim shoved himself off the wall. "You're welcome to it if Artie didn't use it all on the dishes."

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

"You're going to wear a hole in the carpet, Jim." Artie had finished the washing up and was sitting on the couch, reading a newspaper and watching his partner pace the length of the car. Consternation was etched in every line of the younger man's body. "You two were out with the horses long enough. Did you get her life story?"

"Once I got her talking, she contradicted LeClaire on every point. I don't how much of it I believe." Jim stopped pacing and shook his head. "She's almost as good of an actor as you are - a few tears, a little temper, she was damn convincing." He rubbed a hand over his jaw. It was about the only part of him that didn't hurt at the moment. "Jack likes her, if you can believe that."

"Maybe she's not acting." Artie shrugged. "She can't be all bad if your man-eater of a horse likes her."

"Easy for you to say. She didn't try to kill you."

"I seem to remember her trying to stick a knife in me, too. But I get the feeling she wasn't trying to kill either of us. She was wearing a gun but she never drew it in the warehouse. She was close enough to put a bullet in you without even trying."

"She probably didn't want to risk shooting her own men." Jim was not inclined to cut the girl any slack. He crossed the room and poured whisky from a crystal decanter on the sideboard. He handed the first glass to Artie, then took one for himself. "The way she tells it, she and some childhood friends were playing Robin Hood to keep LeClaire from buying up land through illegal methods." He brought Artie up to speed on everything Jessie told him.

Artie listened, sipping his drink.

"And," Jim finished, "she was married to one of the men in the gang. Briefly. LeClaire's guards killed him during the job at Dusty Run."

Artie's brows shot up in surprise.

"The Dusty Run warehouse was hit four months ago. The robberies escalated after that. You think it changed from simple theft to something more complicated?"

"Yeah, I think that's when it turned into vengeance, not just trying to twist her stepfather's nose. I got the feeling they wanted to make him pay for Daniel's – her husband's – death."

"She's becoming quite the noble creature," Artie mused. "She walks away from a life of luxury to become an outlaw, then steals from the rich and gives to the poor to avenge the death of her lover."

"Noble isn't the word I'd use." Jim lowered into a chair, grimacing as bruised muscles contracted.

"It's her word against his but it sounds like we should take a deeper look at Blue Mountain Mining's business dealings. I'm sure Jessie would be happy to help us."

"That's what I'm afraid of," Jim said. "She'll probably tell us anything she thinks we want to hear, just to get the focus off her."

"I find her rather intriguing. If you want my opinion – " Artie started.

"I don't." Jim leaned his head back and closed his eyes. It hadn't escaped him that Jessie McCallister had just made what he thought was an open and shut case a whole lot more complicated. On top of that, he wasn't sure what bothered him more – the physical pain she'd inflicted on his body or the pounding his ego had taken at nearly being bested by a slender wisp of a girl.

"Since you asked –"

"I didn't."

"In case you're trying to –"

"I'm not."

Artie gave up. He stood and called down the hallway. "Miss McCallister? Just toss your clothes out the door. I'll gather them up for the laundry."

Jim opened his eyes to see a bare feminine arm and shoulder emerge from the door of what had been, until recently, a simple water closet. When Artie got the idea to pipe water heated by the train's boiler to a set of taps rigged above a copper tub, the logical thing had been to modify the already existing space that housed their bathroom facilities. It wasn't lavish but it was a workable solution when the Wanderer was between towns and no hotels with baths were available.

Jim watched with interest as the arm deposited breeches, stockings, shirt, vest, bandana and, after a brief pause, what appeared to be a flimsy bit of lace-trimmed linen that he supposed was the girl's camisole, into the hallway. Woman's, he corrected himself. She was a widow, for God's sake.

Artie gathered up the assortment of clothing and began inspecting it before stuffing it into a cloth laundry bag. Jim raised his eyebrows.

"I told her we'd have her things laundered along with ours when we get to the next town," he said. He lowered his voice. "And I'd like to be sure she doesn't have anything else up her sleeve, so to speak." He shook out the garments, then, satisfied they didn't contain any further weaponry, dropped them into the bag. He surveyed Jim. "You might want to add your shirt to the collection. You're looking a little rough." Chuckling, he turned toward the door and called, "Hey, Jessie?"

"What?" Her voice was muffled by running water.

"Toss your boots out and I'll oil them for you when I do mine."

"That's very kind of you, Mr. Gordon, but you needn't trouble yourself."

"No, really, I insist. It won't take but a minute."

"Now you're going to polish her boots? What are you, her valet?" Jim stared, perplexed.

"Shhh. Trust me."

"I always do," Jim muttered. He had no idea where this was going.

Behind them, the door opened briefly and there was a soft thunk as the boots were dropped into the hallway. The door closed again. Artie retrieved them, looking thoughtful.

Jim unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it off. He winced.

"That's gonna hurt in the morning." Artie nodded at the bruises blooming on his partner's abdomen.

"It hurts now. She caught me in the gut with both heels right before she dumped you in the water trough. She kicks like a mule. She's not exactly a poster child for the weaker sex."

The after-effects of the fight were making themselves felt. Jessie had known exactly what she was doing and Jim wondered who'd taught her to fight like that. Her late husband, probably, and the other boys she'd grown up with. Jessie McCallister didn't strike him as the type of girl who spent all her time in the kitchen. She'd recognized she couldn't out-muscle him in the warehouse and her moves had been mostly defensive, buying her time to escape. Her few offensive maneuvers, however, had been gauged for maximum impact. Only his reflexes had kept her from cracking his skull with the staff or landing a solid boot in his crotch. Either one would have dropped him like a rock and it wasn't the sort of thing a guy forgot in a hurry.

"I trust you searched those saddle bags before you gave them back to her," Artie said. "I expect she had more in there than clothes."

"Not my first rodeo." Jim crossed to the sideboard, unlocked it and pulled open a drawer. "I searched them when I took care of her horse, while she was still knocked out. Take a look at this."

He indicated four throwing knives, their lethal blades glinting, along with the Smith and Wesson pistol she'd been wearing in a tie-down leg holster and half a dozen flint knapped arrowheads with razor sharp edges. One had been dipped in silver. A tiny, single-shot Derringer completed the collection.

"Plus, she had a Winchester rifle in a saddle scabbard and a recurve bow with a quiver full of fletched arrows. That's not counting the two knives she lobbed at us in the warehouse. She didn't have any more little surprises in her clothes, did she?"

"No, but take a look at this." Artie held up the right boot. A knife sheath was clearly visible along the inside of the shaft. It was empty.

"Good thinking," Jim said. Then, "Let me see those."

Artie handed over the boots. Jim twisted at the heels and soles until he was satisfied the worn leather was nothing more than what it appeared.

"Better safe than sorry," he muttered and tossed the boots down.

The men looked at the assemblage of weaponry.

"The girl's a walking arsenal," Jim said.

"Like you have room to talk," Artie mused. "She grew up as a rancher's daughter on the frontier. Gotta admire a girl who knows how to take care of herself."

"Didn't LeClaire call her _fragile_ and _innocent_?"

"He may have underestimated her." Artie failed to suppress a grin.

Jim indicated the empty sheath in the boot. "What do you suppose she did with the knife that goes in there?"

"Why don't you ask her when she gets out of the bath? I think she finds you charming."

Jim shot him a look.

"Remember," Artie gestured at the weapons, "injury to the warehouse guards was minimal. None of them got killed, even on the Dusty Run job, when everything went south. I'd say the gang made it a point not to kill anyone. That's a point in their favor."

"Or maybe they're all just bad shots. Are you taking her side now?" Jim asked mildly.

Artie shrugged.

"I'm not choosing sides. I don't trust her any more than you do. I'm just saying maybe we need to get a little more information out of her before we turn her over to the local authorities. I've got a feeling there's more going on here than LeClaire wanted us to know and I think she'll tell us if we play her right."

"I think we should post a guard on her," Jim said darkly and went to pour himself another drink.

 **XXX**

After closing the door behind her boots, Jessie stepped into the copper tub and sank into the steaming water. Artemus had shown her the chain to pull if she wanted hot water to come raining down from a copper disk suspended above the tub but she didn't have the energy to stand.

She laid her head back on the rim of the tub and for the first time in months, let her mind go entirely blank. The fight drained out of her, rising and vanishing with the steam. The jig was up. It had to end eventually but she'd never imagined it would be like this. She'd been a fool to think they could walk away from what they were doing and fade back into obscurity like none of it had ever happened.

Talking to Jim had been cathartic, even if the look on his face said he hadn't believed half of what she'd told him. She'd never talked to anyone about Danny. Oh, sure, she'd talked to Luke and Will but they were so consumed with their own grief and anger after he died they barely had room for hers, too. Either way, there'd been no time for mourning, just focusing on the next job, moving, staying alive.

Somewhere on the trail months ago, flying through the dark on Diamond's back with another warehouse burning behind her, she'd let Danny go. They'd loved each other but they hadn't been together long enough for that love to grow beyond their childhood attraction and the few nights they'd shared as husband and wife. It would have though, if he'd lived, Jessie thought. Daniel been a good man, patient, kind, quick to laugh and slow to anger. Gentle when he touched her. Fierce when he protected her. And that had gotten him killed. He'd seen Rogue fall, heard her scream. He'd come back to get her. And he'd died because of it.

His memory was a treasure, the pain of his death receding slowly, like ice in springtime sun, until one day she'd realized her lingering emotional upheaval was not tied to his loss but to the uncertainty of her own future. And her future had never been more uncertain than now.

 _Life is meant to be lived going forward, girl,_ Danny had said. So that's what she was doing. Going forward. Into what, she had no idea.

She picked up the bar of soap and a cloth, sighing with the simple pleasure of scrubbing the dirt off her skin. The room was tiny, the tub little more than a glorified livestock tank, but it was a damn sight better than hasty rinses in cold streams, which was all she'd had for entirely too long. She ducked under the water and surfaced, then lathered up the pleasantly spicy soap and set to work on her hair, repeating the process until she could feel the strands squeaking between her fingers, the trail grime finally banished.

That part of her life was behind her now, she told herself firmly. The running, the outlawry, even though it had been for a greater good, was in her past. She resolutely set her mind on the future, foggy mess that it was.

Secret Service agents might be just what she needed to get out of the fix she was in but that didn't mean she was ready to tell West and Gordon everything. She hadn't lied about anything earlier, she just hadn't told the whole truth. She needed time to organize her thoughts because if what she suspected was true, it was too horrifying to contemplate. She needed proof and she had no idea where it was going to come from but the clock was ticking. She wondered if it even mattered, since no one in their right mind was going to believe her anyway.

 **XXX**

Jessie emerged from the bathroom feeling like a normal human for the first time in months – clean, fed and not in immediate danger of either being hunted down and shot or married against her will. Her life hung in the balance of two complete strangers and she was still weighing what she should tell them. If they didn't believe what she'd said already, there was no way they'd believe the rest of it.

"Where is it?"

Jim stepped in front of her, jolting her out of her thoughts as she walked into the living area. The hot blue _don't mess with me_ look in his eyes that she'd become so familiar with in their brief acquaintance had her hackles rising automatically. He'd taken off his shirt and she noticed with a slight pang of regret the matched bruises her boot heels had left on his torso. She let her eyes flick from the muscle definition of his chest and arms to what she was sure would be the equally sculpted hard lines of his legs under those snug-fitting trousers. Growing up on a cattle ranch, she was accustomed to seeing men in various states of undress but none of them had ever looked like him. She tried to step around him. He caught her arm, his fingers like a vice.

"Don't make me ask you again."

None of them acted like him, either. She drew herself up and met his glare with one of her own. She was struggling a bit to keep her eyes on his face and silently cursed herself for it.

"I'm afraid you'll have to, Mr. West, since I don't have any idea what you're talking about." Any charitable feelings she had been harboring toward him were quickly evaporating, his good looks notwithstanding. If Secret Service agents were schooled in the art of tact, she thought he'd missed a few crucial lessons. But since the bruises he was carrying were her fault, she supposed his brusque attitude might be justified.

"I think you do. The knife that fits in your boot. Where is it?"

His eyes raked over her without apology. She was barefoot, wearing a nightshirt that fell below her knees. She jerked away, then folded her arms across her chest and held his gaze, letting her annoyance show. Then her eyes fell on the weapons laid out in the open drawer behind him.

"You've been through my things! What happened to a girl's privacy?"

"You're in the custody of the U.S. Government." Jim's face was uncompromising. "You're not entitled to privacy. I'm not asking you again - where's the knife that fits in that boot sheath?"

She shrugged.

"If I don't tell you, are you going to search me?"

"If I have to."

She gritted her teeth. Artie had a bemused look on his face.

"Don't push him, he'll do it."

Jessie weighed the odds. Two against one didn't seem fair in such close quarters, especially since they were both bigger than she was and no strangers to hand-to-hand combat. Plus Jim was probably itching for an excuse to tie her up again. Reluctantly, she dropped her right hand and tugged up the hem of the nightshirt.

Both men studied her with what she thought was a little more than professional interest as she bared her thigh and pulled a six-inch sgian dubh from a sheath sewn to a garter. The blade gleamed wickedly as she tossed it onto the drawer with the rest of her weapons. It landed with a metallic ring. Defiantly, she made a point of tugging down the lacy garter and tossing it on top of the knife. Jim didn't say anything, just pushed the drawer closed. He locked it and pocketed the key.

"Happy now? Still want to search me?" She crossed her arms. "Or are you going to lock me in with the horses tonight?"

"What I want has nothing to do with it. You can sleep on the couch."

Artie opened a cupboard and pulled out a blanket and pillow.

"Thank you." She smiled at him and was rewarded with a conspiratorial wink.

"Don't even think about trying to escape," Jim said. "There are alarms on the doors and windows. We'll know if you try anything."

"Do you really think I'm so desperate to leave your charming company that I'd jump off a moving train in the middle of the night, barefoot and wearing only a night shirt?"

"From what I've seen so far, I wouldn't put it past you. And we both sleep with our doors locked. Trying to break in could be . . . unpleasant . . . for you."

Jessie sputtered indignantly.

"Your bedroom is the last place I'd try to break into," she snapped.

"I'll remember that. Good night, Miss McCallister."

He turned and stalked off. Given that they were on a train, she assumed he probably couldn't get as far away from her as he wanted. The feeling was mutual, although the man looked almost as nice from the back as he did from the front, she thought reluctantly.

Artie bid her good night and she made herself comfortable on the sofa. She'd become so used to sleeping outdoors on the trail, the cushions felt absurdly luxurious. She drew the blanket around her and burrowed into its warmth, staring up into the darkness. The men hadn't told her where they were taking her. Or what they planned to do when they got there.

Her future was no clearer than it had been when she, Will and Luke had ridden into Cotter's Mill. On the bright side, however, there was a lot to say for being clean, fed and possibly having the ear of two men placed highly enough in the government to do something about what was coming. Or at least she had Mr. Gordon's ear. Mr. West would probably be happy to chuck her off the train just to be rid of her. She would deal with that tomorrow.

"Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof," she thought and fell asleep.

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

_(Author's note: I had to rely on Google translator for the brief Gaelic exchange between Jessie and Artie in this chapter. I really hope they are saying what I intended them to. If not, then well played, Google.)_

 **Chapter 5**

Jessie woke to the sound of men's voices in low conversation as cutlery clinked against china. For a panicked second, she had no idea where she was, then the last 12 hours came flooding back. She relaxed, feigning sleep while she gathered her wits. She could smell coffee and bacon and hoped her stomach wouldn't rumble.

"What are we going to do with her?" Jim's voice came from the far side of the car. "We can't just turn her over to the territorial authorities. If what she says about her stepfather is true and he's cooking up crooked land deals, there's no telling how many of them he already has in his pocket. Besides, they've got their hands full with Indian problems. It would take months for her case to come to trial and no jury is going to convict her anyway. Vigilante justice is the law of the land out here. She and those two boys will be folk heroes for saving those ranches."

"I think they already are." Artie sounded thoughtful. "Remember the folks we talked to in Cedar Crossing? They were so grateful for the money, they wouldn't have told us where to find the Robin Hood gang even if they'd known."

"Think we should let LeClaire know we found his stepdaughter?"

There was a brief silence, broken only by the sound of chewing and swallowing, then Artie said, "Let's not get in a hurry on that."

"You got the same bad feeling about him I have?"

"Yeah. I can't put my finger on it but something about him's a half bubble off center."

Someone poured coffee and the scent wafted through the car like an elixir. Jessie forced herself to lie still.

"I don't like the idea of sending her back to San Francisco," Jim said slowly. "No woman should be forced to marry against her will."

"That's very evolved of you, James."

Jessie heard Artie chuckle. Jim snorted.

"That doesn't mean I trust her," he said, his words muffled, as if he were speaking into his coffee cup.

"I don't trust her, either," Artie said, "but it's her word against LeClaire's and until we get to the bottom of this we're responsible for her. Look at it this way, we got through the night without her trying to kill either of us."

"I'm surprised she's still here this morning. I half expected her to vanish."

"I half expected her to wake up in your bed." Artie's voice was ripe with humor.

Jim's strangled reply sounded more like a snarl and Jessie winced at his words.

"Since I met her, she's used me for target practice, tried to give me a concussion, damn near broke my ribs, almost turned me into a soprano and split my lip. And she bit me. _And_ she sleeps with a knife. Or she would have if we hadn't caught her at it. What in the world makes you think I'd take her to bed?"

"She's beautiful, desperate, in trouble – "

"In trouble? She _is_ trouble. I thought you weren't taking sides."

"I'm not," Artie said loftily, "just making an observation. I think she's your kind of girl."

"I prefer girls I can trust when I can't see their hands."

Artie laughed out loud.

"Since when? If a girl isn't trying to incapacitate you, you aren't interested. It's almost a prerequisite – you never like the nice ones you could take home to Mother."

Jessie decided it was time she made her presence known before the conversation deteriorated further. There were some things a girl didn't need to hear. She pushed the blanket back and swung her legs over the edge of the couch, then stood, making sure the nightshirt was tugged modestly below her knees.

"Good morning," she yawned, hoping it sounded like she'd just woken up.

 **XXX**

"Good morning! Coffee?" Artie offered.

"That would be wonderful, thank you."

Jessie reached to take the cup. Jim wondered how long she'd been awake and just how much of that conversation she'd heard.

"Go put some clothes on," he growled.

She flashed a quiet, amused grin.

"Good morning to you, too."

Her smile indicated she'd probably heard more of it than he'd have liked.

She leaned against the fireplace, crossed one ankle over the other and sipped her coffee.

"Am I making you uncomfortable?" She brushed a hand over her sleep-rumpled shirt, sending the fabric tugging in interesting directions. "I'd think a man of the world like yourself has seen women wearing much more attractive garments than this in the morning."

Damned if she wasn't baiting him right off the bat. They seemed destined to pick up where they'd left off the previous night.

"No," he replied. "When I see them in the morning, they're wearing a lot less."

Deliberately, he let his eyes follow the curve of her throat to the delicate lines of her collar bones framed by the open neck of the nightshirt, then lower, to the hint of her nipples pressed against the thin fabric. Her hair was a rumpled auburn mane and he had a sudden, unbidden vision of tangling his fingers in it and pulling her head back to expose that graceful neck to his mouth.

He raised his own coffee cup and took a long pull, remembering something she'd said last night about distracting the guards during the warehouse robberies. Yeah. He could see how that worked. She didn't even have to try. Even with her jaw set in irritation, her face had an innate sensuality that tempted a man's thoughts to wander.

The pose she'd struck against the fireplace wasn't deliberately provocative but her very presence – self-assured, haughty and just a little wild - was wrapped in intriguing allure. The modest cut of the nightshirt only hinted at the curve of hip and thigh, but below the hem sleek calves and delicately turned ankles joined graceful feet. The combination of that body and that temper would be like ignited gunpowder. He thought, briefly, her husband had been a very lucky man. Aside from getting killed.

Wordlessly and without lowering her eyes, Jessie lifted her saddlebags from the floor. She turned on her heel and headed for the water closet to change clothes. She took the coffee with her.

 **XXX**

When she emerged minutes later, dressed in clean breeches and an open collar shirt and hopping on one foot as she pulled on her boots, Artie filled a plate with bacon, eggs and cornbread and set it on the table. He refilled her coffee while she tucked in.

"We need to discuss your future, Miss McCallister," Jim said. "If you've told us everything you can about the warehouse robberies, I believe our time together is about to come to an end." She couldn't tell if he sounded pleased or not.

"Where are you taking me?" She buttered a slab of cornbread. Damned if she was going anywhere on any empty stomach.

"Coyote Falls. There's a magistrate there – he'll hold you until arrangements can be made for a trial. Or to send you back to California."

Her knife slipped from nerveless fingers and clattered loudly on the china.

"You can't send me back to my stepfather!" No matter how she tried, she couldn't keep the panic out of her voice.

"Why not?" The expression on Jim's face indicated there was nothing he'd like more. The bruised corner of his lower lip gave him even more of a rougish look than he'd had last night. She wondered, absently, if she should inquire about his other injuries but decided against it. He hadn't exactly asked how she'd slept, either. She narrowed her eyes, realizing his not-so-rhetorical question might be a play to get her to give up more information in exchange for continued freedom. She raised her chin defiantly. Why not? She'd tell him why not.

"First of all, I'm of age. You can't just hand me off like I'm a child. Second, you can't arrest me for counterfeiting – the coins were real silver and besides, you don't have any proof. We gave it all away and trust me when I tell you none of the people we gave it to would ever turn evidence against us. Third," now she lost some of her bravado and fought to keep her lip from trembling, "Baron Von Krauss gets what he wants. If you make me go back to California, LeClaire will see to it that I'm married before the week is out. You might as well just sign my death warrant."

She could see the stream of consciousness cross Jim's face. She didn't doubt for a minute he'd thought of all the same things.

"There's nothing stopping us from leaving you at the territorial prison in Laramie," he mused. "It's brand new, I hear it's nice. You could cool your heels there for a couple of months waiting for your case to go to trial."

"If you throw me in jail, LeClaire will be delighted. He'll bribe whoever he needs to to get the charges dropped so he can marry me off and finish his land deal."

"Then give us a reason why we shouldn't." Jim's voice was hard. "LeClaire is up to more than just trading you for mineral rights, isn't he? What's he doing?"

Jessie swallowed nervously. She wasn't ready to tell them, didn't have her thoughts organized.

"You wouldn't believe me."

"Try me."

She locked eyes with him. His gaze was an open challenge. Slowly, she put down her knife and fork.

"My stepfather had a laboratory in the basement of our house in San Francisco. He and a doctor did . . . experiments . . . there. They were interested in mind control, hypnosis, brainwashing, that sort of thing. This doctor was helping him create a hypnosis drug – don't laugh, that's what they called it. My stepfather used to say how easy life would be if everyone would just do what he told them. That was one of the reasons I didn't argue when he sent me to college back East. I wanted to get away from him. I was afraid of what he might do if I stayed."

"There are a lot of nut-jobs in the world," Jim said evenly. "Just being one of them isn't a crime."

Jessie paused, fiddling with her coffee cup. If she told them the rest of what she suspected, they'd think she was insane and have her tossed into the first available asylum. If she didn't, they'd think she was nothing more than a common outlaw and have her tossed into the first available jail cell. It wasn't looking good either way. She took a deep breath.

"I think he did it. I think he's created some kind of mind control drug and he's using it to build an army so he can stage a revolution and take over the Wyoming Territory. He wants all the land, all the mineral rights. He wants to be a king."

There, she'd said it. She bit her lip. _Asylum, here I come,_ she thought.

The men were silent, Jim with a shrewdly calculating look on his face, Artie with one of interested contemplation.

"That's not the craziest thing we've ever heard," Artie said finally, "although it makes the top 10. Do you have any proof?"

Jessie shook her head.

"Nothing solid. Just rumors. Men along the Trouble River have been disappearing in the last few months. When Will and Luke and I were . . . traveling . . . we heard stories about trainloads of building materials being delivered to a remote area near Coyote Falls. When some men from the town formed a group and went to investigate, they didn't come back. Pretty soon, people just started avoiding that area. Whatever was out there, it was bad news and better left alone."

"And you think LeClaire is using this mind control drug to build his own little empire?" Artie asked.

Jessie nodded.

"I think he's using it to build a militia. Can you imagine having thousands of brainwashed soldiers at your command?"

"And he's going to use them to launch a takeover of the Territory?" Jim's voice dripped skepticism although Jessie noticed he was watching her with the same cool interest he'd shown the previous night in the stable car.

"Yes," she said firmly. "He wants to create his own nation where he can be the supreme ruler. He talked about it all the time when I lived in San Francisco but I thought he was joking. I mean, who does that? But he wasn't. He'll want to act soon, before Wyoming is granted statehood. The Army is stretched so thin with the Indian troubles they won't stand a chance. The forts will fall and he'll set himself up as a dictator with hardly any resistance. If he can infiltrate the Indian population and get them under his control, too, it will be an even bigger nightmare. He won't stop with just the Wyoming Territory."

Both men were silent, absorbing this. Jessie wasn't sure what scared her more – the very real knowledge that even though she was of age, Maurice LeClaire's long reach could drag her back to the altar in California or finding out for real that her suspicions about him were true. If he was planning a military coup, it would rock the political structure of a nation still recovering from a brutal civil war.

"In terms of world class mad men, that's not bad," Artie said. "He's doing this all from San Francisco?"

Jessie shook her head.

"I don't know. When I was still living there, he traveled a lot. He'd be gone for weeks at a time. I always thought he was going to oversee his mining operations but now I think he was coming out here, building a secret base."

"We need to confirm LeClaire's whereabouts," Jim said. "If he's still directing things from California, we can send our men there to get him. If he's out here now, he's our problem."

Jessie shuddered at the thought.

"How soon will we get to Coyote Falls?" she asked. "I can send a telegram to Giles and find out what's going on at the San Francisco house."

"We're still a few hours out but no need to wait," Artie said. "We can send it from here." He stepped to the desk and uncovered the telegraph key. "Shall we?"

She looked at him in surprise.

"You have your own telegraph?" She looked around suspiciously. "You have hot and cold running water on a train. You have your own private telegraph. What else have you got in here?"

"We'd rather keep that to ourselves," Jim said smugly.

Jessie composed a short message and when Artie finished keying the words, he looked up.

"How soon do you expect him to reply?"

She shook her head.

"I don't know. He has to be careful about drawing LeClaire's attention."

"Have him reply to the telegraph office in Coyote Falls," Jim cautioned. "We'll stay at the hotel there so we can talk to people in town and find out more about what's going on. We'll be away from the train."

It was early afternoon when the Wanderer slowed, indicating its approach to the small frontier town nestled at the foothills of the Beartooth Mountains.

 **XXX**

Coyote Falls, population 783 on Sundays when outlying folks came in to attend church, looked like any other ranching outpost in the Wyoming Territory. With the train parked on a siding near the stockyards, Jim, Artie and Jessie saddled the horses and rode into town. Sunshine painted the faded storefronts on the main street with a degree of optimism the elements couldn't scour away. Jessie felt, for the first time since Daniel's death, like she might finally be able to put the last six months behind her. It would be good to clear her name and not spend the rest of her life either running from the law or the long reach of Maurice LeClaire.

She had no idea how any of that was going to happen. She didn't think the two agents believed her yet but they hadn't dismissed her suspicions out of hand, either. That was as much as she could hope for. Jim seemed to have given up – or at least backed off – on his campaign to toss her into the first available jail cell and be shut of her. She took it as a good sign they'd allowed her to ride without tying her wrists or putting Diamond on a lead line. She thought, briefly, about making a bid for freedom but realized the senselessness of the thought. In spite of her status as a prisoner, she was better off in their custody than striking out alone. There was strength in numbers and she needed all the help she could get.

They pulled up in front of the telegrapher's office. Jessie swung a leg over the saddle and dropped to the ground.

"I'll see if they've received a reply from Giles yet," she said and tied the buckskin's reins to the hitching post. She paused. "Aren't one of you coming with me to make sure I don't run out the back door and escape?"

"You're not going anywhere," Jim said. "We've got your horse."

Jessie ignored his smug grin and turned toward the steps. Behind her, Artie and Jim surveyed the street. Women in long skirts, carrying shopping baskets, moved in and out of the mercantile next door while a group of children stared hungrily at the display of penny candy in the window. Across the street, a blacksmith beat out a metallic cacophony, fashioning horseshoes on his anvil. Harness jingled, dogs barked and live chickens squawked from crates in the back of a nearby buckboard.

It was life as usual on the frontier, Jessie thought, her boots ringing on the wooden planks. A bell over the door chimed merrily as she stepped through. There was nothing to indicate a lunatic might be entrenched in the hills nearby, plotting to use force and chemical warfare to put the bucolic scene under military rule.

 **XXX**

Giles had answered her message. Jessie paid the telegrapher and stepped back out into the sunshine. She unfolded the paper and read, knowing the reply could shape her future. With any luck, the madness that was Maurice LeClaire was still in California. The thought of him being in the same territory, let alone the same town, made her skin crawl.

The telegrapher's neat script hit her like a punch to the stomach. Her vision blurred at the edges as she read. She stumbled, clutching at the porch support for balance, her heart beating an erratic tattoo in her chest.

 _No, no, no!_

"Are you all right? You look like you've seen a ghost." Jim pushed off the wall and put his hand under her elbow to steady her. He might not have much use for her, she thought dazedly, but he was gentleman enough to keep her from falling on her face.

Wordlessly, she thrust the paper at him. He took it and read aloud _._

" _He left for Wyoming compound morning after West and Gordon were here. Took bodyguards. Looking for you. Delusional. Already thinks he's king. Laboratory at house dismantled. Dr. S. traveling with him. Use all caution."_

"King?" Jim said. "Dr. S? Who's that?"

"Dr. Scheidt, the man who helped him in the laboratory. He's as crazy as LeClaire! Do you believe me now?" Jessie's voice was shaking. She snatched the telegram back and shook it in Jim's face. "He wants his own sovereign nation and he's going to make it happen one way or another!"

She paced, anger burning away her fear.

"He's coming after me. If he can get me married to the Baron and get his hand on the rest of the Trouble River valley, he'll be able to launch his takeover. God only knows how many men he's drugged into serving in his army by now. He's got Dr. Scheidt with him so he can make more of that serum. They're probably manufacturing it by the barrel."

Artie reappeared, looking grim. Jessie handed him the telegram. He read, then nodded and said, "A fellow at the feed mill confirmed a train brings loads of supplies every week. Men come into town with wagons and haul it off into the hills northeast of here. They never talk to anyone, never go into any of the stores or the saloon. Sounds like it's been going on for months now. It could be LeClaire's men, supplying his camp."

"Let's go have a look." Jim turned to Jessie. "If you're telling the truth, we can stop this before he has a chance to launch his plan."

Jessie bit back a scream of frustration.

"Of course I'm telling the truth! Why won't you believe me?"

Jim gripped her arm, fingers like a vice, all pretense of gallantry gone. She held her ground even though they were nearly nose to nose. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of trying to pull away.

"Why? Because I think you'd say anything to keep us from taking you back to your stepfather or arresting you. Do I need to remind you you're still facing federal charges?"

Jessie squared her shoulders. She tipped her head back slightly to meet his eyes.

"I am _not_ going back to California. You can't make me."

The look on Jim's face said otherwise.

"Are you always this contrary?"

"Only around you."

Artie looked at the sky and whistled tunelessly. Jessie thought he was trying not to laugh.

"The sun will be down in a couple of hours," Artie said. "It's too late to go charging off on an expedition into the unknown. Let's give this some thought over dinner and come up with a plan for tomorrow."

 **XXX**

The men decided they wouldn't stay in town that evening. When they returned to the train, Jessie offered to help Artie with the evening meal while Jim took care of the horses. Deliberately, Jim asked if she'd rather help him with the horses and got the distinct feeling she'd have been delighted to only if he stayed in the kitchen and helped Artie. He didn't exactly trust her yet. He didn't exactly _not_ trust her, either, but he wasn't about to leave her alone with a four-legged means of escape.

He pulled the tack off the horses and filled hay nets and water buckets. The buckskin was as affectionate as his owner was aloof. Diamond nibbled on his arm, then shoved him between the shoulder blades when that didn't get his attention. Jim turned to the animal and addressed him.

"Your owner is a right piece of work, you know that?"

That got no response.

"I'm either starting to like her or I think I should turn her over my knee."

The horse regarded him with a dark eye that was a whole lot friendlier than Jessie McCallister's jade green ones.

"Yeah. I tried that once already. She bit me."

At that, the horse gave him a friendly push in the chest and dribbled half-chewed oats down the front of his shirt.

Jim gave up. He finished with the horses and left the stable car. Entering the varnish car, he heard Artie's low chuckle blended with Jessie's lilting tones. They were apparently enjoying whatever they were doing in the small galley kitchen. He shoved those thoughts out of his mind and pulled off his jacket. The shirt was a mess of horse slobber and oats. He was unbuttoning it when Artie stuck his head out of the kitchen.

"Dinner in five minutes," he announced.

"Sounds like you two are having fun in there."

"She's giving me Gaelic lessons," Artie said cheerfully.

"Is that what they're calling it now?" Jim smirked. Artie could say what he liked about Jim's assignations with the fairer sex, but Jim knew the older man wasn't above reproach either. However, it would be unlike his partner to engage in anything less than professional conduct with a girl at the center of an ongoing investigation. He loosened his cuffs and pulled his shirt out of his trousers.

Artie scowled and lowered his voice.

"She's a fascinating girl, Jim. Clever, tough, altruistic. I don't know why you're so set against her."

"Maybe because she's a self-confessed thief, arsonist and counterfeiter!"

" _Gluais do asal!"_ Jessie sang out, emerging from the kitchen with a laden platter.

Artie contemplated this, then returned, " _Logh mo thoin."_

Jessie laughed and nodded approvingly.

Jim glared.

Artie translated.

"She told me to move my arse, so I asked her to please pardon my arse."

Jessie glanced at Jim, who was standing with his back to her, his shirt draped over one shoulder. Her eyes ran appreciatively up and down his backside, a barely concealed smile playing across her features. Artie saw it too. He took the tray from her and hastily said, "Dinner is served."

Jim wondered in what context translating the Gaelic word for _ass_ had come up in the first place.

 **XXX**

"I saw several men in militia-type uniforms loading barrels off a train this afternoon," Artie said when they were seated. He passed a platter of chicken fricassee to Jim. "Looked like barrels of gunpowder to me. I couldn't get a better look. They had guards posted at the freight depot and there was something about them that made me not want to get any closer."

"Something like what?" Jim helped himself and passed the platter to Jesse. He'd put on a clean shirt before sitting down at the table. More's the pity, she thought. The man vexed her on a number of different levels but he was easy on the eyes.

"Like they were alive but just going through the motions. Their faces were vacant, absolutely emotionless," Artie said. "It was like the fellow in LeClaire's study, whatever his name was. Remember how he did only what he was told? At the time, I thought he was just being a good servant but I think if LeClaire had told him to throw himself into the fireplace, he would have."

"It's the memory serum," Jessie said, scooping food onto her plate. "It totally erases your mind. After they give it to you, you're still alive but you're hollow . . . you can't think for yourself. You just do what you're told and you keep doing it until you're told to do something else. Or until you die."

They ate in silence for several minutes. Jessie could feel the men weighing her words. If they would just believe her maybe they could stop her stepfather before he sent thousands of innocent men to their slaughter. She doubted the U.S. Army would take a revolution lightly.

Jim set down his wine glass.

"All right, McCallister. We'll ride out tomorrow and see what's going on in the hills. If LeClaire's built something out there, it shouldn't be hard to find. But if you're leading us on a wild goose chase, there's a cell with your name on it at Fort Laramie."

 **XXX**

Muffled screams woke Jim from a restless sleep. The luminescent numbers on the bedside clock read 2:14 a.m. He heard screaming again and without hesitating, slid out of bed and pulled on trousers. Barefoot, he grabbed his Colt, then eased the door open and stepped into the corridor. Quiet snores emanated from behind Artie's door. Jim paused, then decided there was no sense waking him.

He slid past Artie's room, his back pressed to the paneling. He listened hard for sounds of an intruder but heard nothing. Another scream, muffled by cloth, cut through the darkness. Thin moonlight painted the interior of the car in black and silver shadow. On the couch, he could see Jessie, her body jerking as if gripped by an unseen hand. As he paused, she thrashed, screaming into the pillow again. The sound reached a tormented pinnacle, then dissolved into sobs.

Jim crossed the room in two strides. He laid his gun on the sideboard and gripped her by the shoulders. She fought him, tears streaking her cheeks, her arms and legs caught in a tangle of blankets.

"McCallister! Wake up! You're all right, it's just a bad dream." He shook her hard, relieved when her eyes flew open and recognition flooded into them. She wiped the tears away and took a shuddering breath.

"They killed Danny. There was blood everywhere and they were coming for me. Rogue was dead, I couldn't run, I couldn't get away _."_ Sobs threatened again and Jim did the only thing he could think of. He sank onto the couch and gathered her in his arms. She didn't resist, her sudden vulnerability completely at odds with the girl who fought him tooth and nail 24 hours earlier.

"You're all right," he whispered. "You're safe." She trembled even though her body was warm through the nightshirt. He stroked her back as though she were a skittish horse and she relaxed marginally.

"I don't know if things will ever be all right again," she hiccupped and he could hear the ragged edge of fear in her voice. "As long as LeClaire is looking for me, I'll never stop watching over my shoulder. Now he's coming after me in my dreams!"

"Who was Rogue?" Jim asked, trying to pull her mind away from the nightmare.

"My horse. One of LeClaire's men – guards at the warehouse - shot him that night at Dusty Run. The same night they killed Danny."

"Where did you get Diamond?" If he could keep her talking, catch her in an unguarded moment, maybe she would let something slip about her involvement in this whole twisted mess.

"He was Danny's."

"Oh." Again, he noted the degree of grief she expressed for her late husband was rivaled only by sorrow at the loss of her horse.

She lay her face against his chest, the soft warmth of her body pressing against his as he cradled her. Jim's mind started to veer off in directions that had nothing to do with gathering intelligence about arson and counterfeiting. He realized her increasing comfort level was in complete disproportion to his own. He stood.

"You're safe here. You need to get some sleep. There's no telling what Artie and I will find tomorrow – today – when we ride out there."

She bit her lip. That fragile look clung to her, as if all the demons in the world were still after her. She rose, a slender wraith in the shadows.

"I don't want to be alone. Can I . . .," she lowered her voice to a whisper, "can I stay with you tonight?"

He studied her face. No hint of allure played across her features but damned if she wasn't beautiful in the moonlight shafting through the window. If they'd met under any other circumstances, if she'd been nothing more than just another a beautiful woman, he wouldn't have hesitated to take her into his bed. But she was at the center of an investigation involving national security and as much as he wanted to, this was not the time to mix business with pleasure.

"Jessie, I don't think it's a good idea for us to -"

She slapped him, her hand lashing out like a stroke of lightning. He recoiled, surprised by the speed and intensity of the strike. His cheek stung and he remembered exactly how they'd met. There wasn't anything vulnerable or fragile about her. What the hell had he been thinking?

"That's not what I meant!" she snarled. "I have no intention of sleeping with you! I just don't want to be by myself. I just . . ." She choked back a sob. "I just need to hear someone breathing next to me in the dark, so I know I'm not alone." Her voice hardened. "And that's _all_. I'm sure Artemus would be gentleman enough to let me stay with him if you can't handle it."

Jim rubbed his stinging cheek. Artie was fond of saying keep your friends close and your enemies closer. He wasn't sure which camp Jessie McCallister fell into and he wasn't sure how close he wanted her, but the tension in her body and the haunted look on her face made it impossible to walk away. He gritted his teeth. He could handle it.

"Then by all means, I would delighted to let you hear me breathing," he said, "since I'm guessing that means you won't try to kill me."

He bowed extravagantly and followed her down the hall to his sleeping quarters.

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

"Morning, partner!" Artie stepped out of the kitchen and raised his coffee mug in salute.

Jim yawned and rubbed his jaw.

"Anyone ever tell you you're too damn cheerful in the morning?" he grumbled. He should have gotten up earlier if for no other reason than to avoid this exact scene.

"Did you get up on the wrong side of the bed?" Artie turned back to the kitchen and poured another mug of coffee. He handed it to Jim. "Ladies like a cheerful man in the morning. Speaking of ladies, where's Jessie? I didn't hear her get up." He indicated the tangled blankets on the couch.

"She's, uh, not there."

"I can see that. Where is she?"

"She's, um . . . " Jim squared his shoulders. "She's in my bed."

Artie blinked. He lowered his coffee.

"I knew it! You slept with her!" The expression on his face said it wasn't a question.

"I did not sleep with her. She slept in my bed. There's a difference."

Artie didn't say anything. His silence indicated he thought the difference was negligible.

"And where did _you_ sleep?"

"In my bed."

Artie shook his head.

"Really, Jim, she's part of an ongoing investigation. Is that wise?"

"Nothing happened. She was having nightmares about her late husband and needed comforting. That's all." Damn. He wasn't in the habit of justifying his choice of bed partners. This was another reason he preferred to enjoy women's company away from the train. He didn't care if Artie knew about his female companions – it wasn't like they were ever a secret - he just preferred not to wave them in his partner's face. Not that there was anything to wave this morning.

"And I'm sure you were willing to accommodate her," Artie said drily.

"She slept under the blankets, I slept on top of them. She said she just wanted to know someone was breathing next to her in the dark, so I figured she wasn't going to kill me."

Artie choked back a laugh, held his breath, then gave up, gales of mirth rolling off him.

"What's so funny?" Jim glared at him.

"You. God, Jim, maybe she didn't kill you but I bet you didn't get any sleep, either, no matter what side of the blankets you were on."

Jim took solace in his coffee.

"Keep it up, buddy, I'll send her to your quarters next time."

Artie shrugged. His grin was cherubic.

"You've put me in worse predicaments."

"I need a refill." Jim turned back to the kitchen. What he hadn't told Artie was that when Jessie had another nightmare, he'd held her until she quit trembling. She'd still been in his arms when he woke that morning, blankets between them notwithstanding.

 **XXX**

The door closed with a quiet click and Jim's footsteps faded. Jessie played possum for a few more minutes until she was sure he was gone, then sat up, cradling her head in her hands.

Guilt washed over her. What the hell had she been thinking, falling into the arms of a man who could probably hear the key turning in her cell door? She chided herself for the moment of weakness and vowed not to let it happen again. It wasn't a matter of honoring Danny's memory. She was too practical to believe he would be the only man in her life. No, it wasn't that. It was a matter of not needing to complicate things any more than they already were and Jim West had complication written all over him.

Jessie looked around the room. It had been dark when Jim led her to the bed last night. He'd let her settle in, then lain down atop the blankets with his back to her and immediately fallen asleep. In spite of her own tormented mind, she'd curled next to his warmth, finding peace in his slow, regular breathing.

There was a lot to be said for the simple comfort of another human presence. After Danny was killed, Will and Luke had been insanely protective of her, especially Will, who was the oldest of the gang. She'd longed to ask them for the favor of companionship as she slept but knew they would have been scandalized. She was their best friend's widow and while they had no trouble when she stepped into the gang's leadership role, neither of the boys would have crossed the line to invite her into their bed, whether in a plutonic sense or not. She slept alone with her nightmares.

She shoved those thoughts aside. Those days were behind her, in any event. Life was meant to be lived going forward. She resumed her study of Jim's quarters.

The room was Spartan and maintained with military neatness. A desk occupied a portion of one wall, flanked by bookshelves built atop cupboards. Jessie's fingers itched to explore the titles but that felt like a violation of the fragile sense of trust that had grown between her and Jim during the night. An armoire ran the length of the opposite wall. Near the door, a small, drop-leaf table held a collection of tools for cleaning guns and loading ammo, plus a clutter of other curious gadgets she couldn't identify. In between was the bed she was sitting in. It was comfortable but not large. How had they both managed to occupy it last night without things becoming . . . complicated?

A breeze licked through the partially opened window and Jessie tugged the blanket around her. She caught the faint scent of sandalwood shaving lotion overlaid with the ever-present tang of leather. It did nothing for her state of mind and she felt a grudging respect for the fact Jim had held true to his word and been a gentleman. If he'd been inclined to see if she'd use her body as a bargaining chip to negotiate her freedom she wasn't sure she could have stopped him. She wasn't sure she would have tried. When he wasn't grating on her last nerve, Jim was undeniably, impossibly, dangerously attractive.

"Hey, McCallister! I'm not bringing you breakfast in bed." Jim's voice was slightly muffled by the door. "And if it's gone when you get out here, don't expect me to cook more just for you."

She rolled her eyes. Good morning to you, too, she thought. If he was trying to keep her off balance, he was making a fine job of it.

 **XXX**

Jessie watched as Jim checked the load in his Colt and replaced it in the holster. Artie was likewise buckling on his gun belt in preparation for the morning's excursion. She cleared her throat. Jim cast her a sideways glance.

"Something on your mind?" His grin told Jessie he was enjoying the fact she'd turned to him in a moment of weakness. She didn't have any idea what he might have told Artie but neither of the men had mentioned the previous night's unorthodox sleeping arrangements. She didn't see any reason to bring it up.

"Yes," she said firmly. "I want my weapons back."

"Why?" Jim looked amused at the request.

"Because I'm not going near LeClaire's encampment unarmed."

"You're not going near LeClaire's encampment, period."

"I'm not?"

"No, you're staying here."

Jessie couldn't help herself. She smiled and looked up demurely under her lashes.

"You're going to leave me here? Alone? Really?"

She reached out and picked a cue ball out of a side pocket on the billiards table. She tossed it casually in the air, caught it, tossed it again. Across the car, Artie flinched visibly. Jim stepped in and smoothly caught the ball as it descended. He put it gently back in the pocket and took both of her wrists. Pulling her toward him, he said, "You need to keep your hands off things that aren't yours."

"So do you," she said coolly.

She tried to back pedal but his fingers tightened on her like a vice. She matched his glare, then blinked. Was she imagining things or were the corners of his mouth twitching with the hint of a smile?

"Or I could just tie you up again." His voice was silk.

Jessie bared her teeth and hoped he couldn't hear her heart, which was pounding harder than the occasion warranted.

"I'd like to see you try."

"Be careful what you ask for." He was smiling now, a lazy grin that infuriated her because it made her think about things that had nothing to do with clearing her name and staying out of jail. The man had no business making her so unsettled.

"You're such a pain in the ass I'm surprised a woman hasn't shot you by now," she snapped.

"They have, sweetheart."

"And you're still here? I don't know how they could miss your ego."

This exchange seemed destined to go on interminably until Artie cleared his throat. He unlocked the drawer containing Jessie's confiscated weapons and slid it out.

"Help yourself," he said.

Jim didn't let go of her wrists.

"Are you sure that's a good idea?" he said over her head.

"Letting her come with us or giving her weapons back?" Artie returned.

"Both."

"She didn't kill you in your sleep so I'm thinking she's not likely to do it in broad daylight."

"I wouldn't put money on it," Jim said. "There's no telling what she'll do."

"Would you stop talking about me like I'm not here!" Jessie demanded.

He released her.

"Thank you," she snarled and stepped toward the weapons cache.

"Do you really want to leave her alone here?" Artie asked, his tone meaningful. "If she's coming with us, I'd rather she was armed. There's no telling what we'll find out there."

Jim made a doubtful noise.

Jessie scooped up her throwing knives and tucked them into her vest. She dropped the sighn dhu into the boot sheath and picked up her Smith and Wesson.

"Thank you," she said to Jim when Artie left to start saddling the horses. "For last night, I mean. I slept well. And for trusting me with . . well . . ." She dropped a hand to the butt of her revolver.

"Try not to shoot me, McCallister," was all he said.

 **XXX**

An hour's brisk ride found Jim, Artie and Jessie in the foothills northeast of Coyote Falls. The frequent passage of heavy wagons left a rough track through the scrub a blind man could have seen. If LeClaire's encampment was indeed out here, he wasn't making any attempt to hide it. Of course, if he were as power-drunk as Jessie said he was, he probably didn't care, Jim thought.

"Look." Artie reined in Liberty and pointed. Jim followed his gaze. Columns of smoke rose into the sky beyond the next ridge and the faint sound of jingling harness and men's shouts carried on the breeze.

"We'll leave the horses here," Jim said. After tying the animals in a small copse of trees, the trio crept up the ridge in single file. Jim wasn't sure if he wanted Jessie, armed as she was, at his back or forging ahead where she was liable to do something reckless. When it turned out she moved with the quiet stealth of someone used to the outdoors, he settled for having her ahead of him. That view was nicer anyway. While he preferred women who dressed like women there was a lot to be said for the way her britches fit. He shook his head. Of all the things he should be thinking about right now, the curve of her hips wasn't one of them.

After scrambling upward for a hundred yards, they dropped to the ground and crawled, shoulder-to-shoulder, to the crest of the ridge. Cautiously, they looked over. Artie let out a low whistle. Jessie stared in disbelief. Jim swore.

The encampment spread below them like a military base. A wide street ran between what looked like an armory, blacksmith, mess hall, storehouses and administrative buildings. Smoke curled from the smithy where men bustled around an outdoor forge. A number of cannon were aligned in orderly rows. Draft and light horses were penned in a series of corrals.

Row after row of tents stretched beyond an open expanse of ground where men in brown uniforms were drilling. Shouts and the sound of combat drifted upward on the air. Jim studied the layout with a sinking feeling in his gut. This wasn't just a training camp for a few mercenaries. It was LeClaire's central command. When Jessie said her stepfather wanted to take over the territory, he'd imagined a businessman with delusions of grandeur recruiting a handful of thugs to wreak havoc. He'd never thought it would be anything like this.

None of them spoke as they watched the bustling scene below. Finally, Jessie said, "He's not going to wait much longer, whether Von Krauss grants him the rest of the land or not. He's crazy enough to march straight into Cheyenne and plant his flag on the territorial capital steps."

The wind shifted and an odd, sweet odor drifted toward them.

"You smell that?" Jim said.

Artie nodded.

"I thought it was your new cologne."

Jim shot him a look.

"It's the same stuff we smelled in LeClaire's house."

"It's the mind control serum," Jessie said flatly. "After you've smelled it once, you don't forget it. The house in San Francisco reeked of it before I left. I bet one of those buildings down there is set up as a laboratory. He's got to be using the stuff to control most of those men." She waved at the rows of canvas tents stretched on the hillside. "There's no way the settlers out here would follow him voluntarily." She sighed bitterly. "We love our country and our freedom too much to throw it away for another war."

As they watched, a thin figure flanked by a hulking bodyguard and a shorter, thickset man exited one of the buildings. Jim felt Jessie stiffen next to him. Without speaking, she slid back a few feet from the ridgeline and rose in a low crouch.

"What are you doing?" he asked, not taking his eyes from the scene in front of them. He estimated the number of men, horses and armament, his mind running through strategies to handle the situation.

"That's LeClaire! He's here!"

"I can see him - damnit, McCallister - where do you think you're going?"

"To get a closer look. I think that's Dr. Scheidt with him."

Jim twisted to grab her arm but he was too late. She'd already ducked behind a clump of trees and disappeared. The light step of her boots quickly faded. Jim swore.

"Now what happens?" Artie asked.

The words had no sooner left his lips than a rifle shot lifted his hat off his head and sent it spinning. Both men flattened themselves to the ground.

"Son of a bitch!" Artie swore. "That was a rhetorical question!"

"Aunt Maude wouldn't approve of your language." Both men began to work their way down the slope.

"Aunt Maude never had anyone shoot her hat. Although she had several that should have been put out of their misery."

More shots slammed into the ridge, sending rock chips raining down on them as the sound reverberated off the hills. Artie snatched up his hat as he slid past it, scowled at the hole and jammed it back on his head.

"How'd they know we were up here?"

"They must have sentries posted." Jim scanned the area. "Can you see Jessie?"

"No. And I don't think waiting here is going to improve our longevity. Let's get moving before they put holes in more than just my hat."

Jim looked in the direction where the girl had disappeared. She must have heard the gunfire by now. He hoped she had the sense not to run straight into it. That was assuming she wasn't the one shooting at them in the first place, although killing either of them would gain her little in the long term. At the moment, he and Artie were the last layer of protection between her and her insane stepfather. Another shot sent pinecones skittering out of a nearby tree.

"She's a bright girl, she'll find her way back," Jim muttered , hoping he was right. Amidst curses, the two men scrambled to their feet and made their way down the slope. They were nearly to the horses when Jim saw the dull glint of a rifle barrel protruding from a screen of cedar branches.

"Going somewhere?" a gravelly voice asked.

Jim slid to a stop as a man wearing a brown militia uniform stepped from behind the tree.

Artie went for his gun but wasn't fast enough. The man jammed the rifle barrel under Jim's ear hard enough he felt it echo through his skull.

"Don't move," the thug snarled.

"Careful where you're sticking that thing," Jim grumbled but he froze in place.

"You ain't givin' the orders, pretty boy." The man turned to Artie. "Drop it." He nodded at the revolver in his hand. "Nice and easy, then step over here." Artie complied, slowly laying the gun down and stepping next to Jim. The men exchanged a glance. Where the hell _was_ Jessie?

The man kicked Artie's gun out of reach, then lowered the rifle barrel slightly and motioned to Jim.

"You next," he said. "Toss out that fancy shootin' piece and then we'll have us a little chat about what you're doing up here."

Jim drew his revolver with two fingers and dropped it. It landed with a soft thud on the pine needles. The thug studied them with a malicious smile that showed tobacco stained teeth.

"Mr. LeClaire is gonna be real interested when I tell him you two gents were snooping around where you ain't got no business."

"I thought Mr. LeClaire lived in California," Jim said. "What's he doing here?"

The thug scowled, aware of his lapse of intelligence protocol. He paused, scrutinizing them.

"Hey, I seen your pictures before," he said slowly. "You're them Secret Service fellers, West and Gordon, ain't you?"

"Never heard of 'em." Jim tried to ease away from the rifle. If he could get a little breathing room he knew he could drop this yahoo in a heartbeat but it was hard to maneuver with a rifle slug only one twitchy finger away from blowing his head off.

The thug wasn't having it. He jammed the barrel harder into Jim's neck.

"I said don't move!" He looked them over carefully and seemed to reach a decision.

"If you ain't West and Gordon, mebbe I'll just kill you myself, save me the trouble of hauling you down the mountain to see Mr. LeClaire."

In his peripheral vision, Jim saw a flash of motion in the underbrush.

"What if we _are_ West and Gordon?" he asked, keeping his expression neutral. He dared a glance at Artie and an imperceptible nod of the head told him his partner had seen the movement, too. They had to keep the man talking.

"In that case, I'll take you to Mr. LeClaire so he can kill you himself."

"Sounds like we'd get to live a little longer that way," Artie said reasonably.

"Oh yeah. Mr. LeClaire's so mad he said if he gets his hands on 'em, he plans on killing 'em real slow." The man smiled wickedly.

"I'm confused, my good man," Artie said. "I thought Mr. LeClaire hired West and Gordon to solve his problem with the silver thefts, which I believe they have. There haven't been any more thefts since they arrested the gang at Cotter's Mill, have there?"

The man shook his head, the nasty grin growing wider.

"Mebbe not but he heard a rumor they found his stepdaughter along the way. A feller in town said a real pretty little filly that fits her description was seen traveling with them two agents but they ain't contacted LeClaire to tell him they have her. That made him madder'n seven hells. He wants that girl back awful bad. And he don't take kindly to no strangers pokin' around his private land, no matter who they are."

Jim jerked in surprise. They'd only been in town for a few hours yesterday, hardly long enough for anyone to identify Jessie but apparently LeClaire had eyes everywhere. He was starting to understand Jessie's unease at the man's reach. And now he was doubly glad they hadn't contacted the mining baron with the news they'd found his stepdaughter. He highly doubted LeClaire's obsession with finding her had anything to do with concern for her safe return.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he said, voice flat. "We don't know anything about any stepdaughter."

"I dunno about you, Jim, but I'm all for living longer. We _are_ West and Gordon," Artie said with finality. "Or Gordon and West. I'm Gordon. He's West."

In the corner of his eye, Jim saw another ripple of motion behind the gunman's back. He kept his eyes straight ahead. He had no idea what Jessie's plan was. He didn't even know if she had a plan. For all he knew, everything she'd told him so far was an elaborate ruse to trick him into coming up here and getting caught. Admittedly, other than trying to escape from him in Cotter's Mill, she hadn't done anything to give him a reason not to trust her. Either way, she was little more than a wild card in a game that could end with his and Artie's lives on the table.

The man looked at them suspiciously and gnawed his lip.

"How do I know you ain't just sayin' that so's I don't shoot you right now?" He lowered the rifle and the barrel swung between the two men. "Mebbe I oughta just shoot you and save LeClaire the trouble. Either way, you're gonna get dead."

Jim shrugged indifferently.

"What if we _are_ West and Gordon and LeClaire finds out you shot us? He won't be too happy if you deprive him of the pleasure of killing us." He smiled benignly. "On the other hand, if we _aren't_ West and Gordon, LeClaire won't be happy if you haul us down there and waste his time."

The man's eyes narrowed. Now he was confused.

"I don't like your smart mouth. Bet if I shoot you in the foot you won't talk so smart. And the boss could still do you in himself." Taking a few steps back, he raised the rifle to his shoulder and aimed.

 **XXX**

From her vantage point, concealed behind a huge pine, Jessie's heart was in her throat. She'd come back from confirming Dr. Scheidt was indeed with her stepfather to find Jim and Artie being held at gunpoint, both disarmed and looking furious.

Some tiny animal instinct urged her to turn tail and run. If she'd wanted a chance to escape, this was it. She could circle around, lead Diamond quietly down the trail and be long gone before anyone knew she was there. She could go north to Canada, maybe, or follow a cattle drive south to some no-name Texas town and take on a new identity. Her stepfather surely couldn't track her that far, could he?

Yes. He could.

But even worse, bolting would mean abandoning Jim and Artie to an unknown – and undoubtedly unpleasant – fate at her stepfather's hands. A stronger instinct took over. It was the same one that had kept her alive for the last six months and it told her to fight, to protect the men who in the space of two days, had become inexplicably linked to her life, whether she liked it or not.

She dropped her hand to her revolver, then pulled it back. She was a good shot but the chance of hitting either of the agents from this angle was too high. Besides, a gunshot would only draw additional attention from LeClaire's sentries. She expected the hills were crawling with them. Whatever she did, it had to be done quietly.

She pulled a knife from her vest. Without looking at it, she weighed its familiar balance in her hand, gauging the distance between herself and the rifleman. She stepped from behind the tree and threw the knife with everything she had.

 **XXX**

Jim swallowed hard. He needed to act fast before this damned fool shot him just because he could. He tensed, preparing to throw himself sideways as the thug's finger moved toward the trigger. Suddenly, the man howled in pain and lurched forward, the rifle swinging wildly. Jim saw the sun flash off a silver-handled throwing knife buried to the hilt in the back of his right arm. As if in slow motion, a second knife whistled through the air and embedded itself with a solid _thwack_ in the man's thigh. He stumbled forward, screaming, as his leg gave out, finger squeezing the trigger as he fell.

Jim threw himself sideways, knocking Artie out of the way and grabbing the riffle barrel to twist it upright as it discharged. All three of them landed in a tangle. Jim scrambled to his feet first and jerked the weapon away from the still yelling man. Without hesitating, he cracked the stock against his temple.

 **XXX**

So much for being quiet.

The rifle shot and screams were still echoing off the hills as Jessie ran across the clearing, struggling to pull air into her lungs. She drew up next to the man's body.

"He isn't . . . is he?" She'd deliberately aimed to disarm him, to incapacitate without killing, but he lay with an unnerving motionless finality.

"No, he's not dead but he'll wish he was when he wakes up," Jim said. Artie climbed to his feet. He dusted himself off and handed Jim his revolver.

Jessie braced herself and pulled her knives free, then wiped them on the grass. She didn't look at the body, even though Jim had assured her he was still breathing.

"And they say you shouldn't bring a knife to a gun fight," she quipped, trying to regain her composure. "Are you two all right?"

"You took long enough." Jim shoved his gun back in its holster.

Jessie scowled.

"Everyone's a critic." She hadn't expected heaping praise but would it hurt him to say thank you?

"We're fine," Artie assured her. "Thanks."

She flashed him a grin.

"Is he always that appreciative?" There was no doubt who _he_ was.

Artie's reply was cut off as fresh gunfire sent bark flying from a nearby pine. Jim swore loudly.

"Come on!" he yelled and bolted for the horses.

Jessie scrambled down the slope after him with Artie close on her heels. Her boots skidded on loose rock and she stumbled, going down hard on one knee. Artie grabbed her arm and hauled her back to her feet without breaking stride as rifle fire opened up behind them. Jim had the horses untied when they reached the stand of aspens. Jessie flew into Diamond's saddle without the aid of stirrups and caught the reins as Jim threw them to her. All three crouched low over their mounts' necks and they thundered down the trail.

Rifle slugs blasted off granite outcroppings and trees alike as they careened between pines and around boulders, the horses leaping fallen limbs as low boughs lashed their riders' faces. Jessie expected to feel the burning stab of hot lead at any moment. She rode with one hand clamped on her hat, her face nearly buried in Diamond's mane, as they pelted three abreast out of the cover of the trees. Once they were in the open, she let out the reins and the buckskin lengthened his stride to fly over the ground. She didn't have to look to either side to know Jim and Artie were riding equally hard, Jack and Liberty matching Diamond's blazing speed.

When the sound of rifle volleys faded in the distance, they reined to a halt in silent accord. They sat, not speaking, letting the horses rest. Jessie took her first deep breath in what felt like hours.

" _Now_ do you believe me?" she demanded. She hoped they couldn't see her fingers shaking on the reins and fiddled with her hat to cover her emotions.

Jim shifted in the saddle. A bit of flying debris had hit him in the face during their headlong flight. He wiped at the blood trickling from his cheekbone. Artie picked bits of blasted pinecone out of his hair and studied the hole in his hat.

"Yeah. I believe you," Jim said. Then, added grudgingly, "And thanks for . . . back there . . ."

"He's not used to thanking women for helping him out of sticky situations. That's usually my job," Artie grinned. "Getting him out of the sticky situation, not thanking women for him," he amended.

Jim looked at her without speaking. His eyes sparkled and a faint smile curved his lips.

"You're kind of handy to have around, McCallister."

"We'll just call it even for last night," Jessie said coolly and chirping to Diamond, kneed him back toward Coyote Falls.

TBC


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

As they rode back to town, Jim and Artie talked through ways they could lure LeClaire into the open so they could confront him. Jessie kept her mouth shut. She considered it a victory the agents finally believed her but she wasn't about to start telling them how to do their job. Like they would listen. She rode quietly between the two men, feeling like a spectator at a tennis match as they bounced ideas off each other with an ease that spoke of long practice.

Attempting to infiltrate the compound would be a suicide mission, given the number of chemically-controlled soldiers her stepfather had at his command. Jim and Artie were sure LeClaire must have a private home in or near Coyote Falls, since living in a military encampment didn't fit the grand style of a self-proclaimed dictator. Neither of them were in a hurry to attempt an infiltration of that site either. They concluded the man would have to be drawn out to a neutral spot.

It was finally agreed Artie would verify the whereabouts of LeClaire's residence, then send a message, allegedly from the private investigator in the mining tycoon's employ, saying his stepdaughter had been located and he should come to the Crooked Arrow Saloon at 8 p.m. that evening to discuss the matter. Artie would play the part of the investigator and Jim would be there, too, keeping a low profile until Artie could subdue LeClaire. Artie was trying to decide between slipping something into his drink or using his trademark knock-out gas. While they expected LeClaire to come with at least one bodyguard, both agents were confident they could out-fight, or at least out-think, whatever security presented itself.

Jessie was unsure what part she played in the plan. Jim suggested using her as bait – once again negating any warm feelings she'd started to have for him – but Artie nixed that on the grounds it would be dangerously easy for the hired muscle to snatch her up and be gone. As much as Jessie thought that might appeal to Jim, he let it go without too much argument, once gain leaving her mind in a swirl.

She hated the thought of sitting idly by while the men did the dirty work but she was afraid if she got within 50 feet of LeClaire, she'd shoot him on sight. Then the men would have another reason to throw her in jail. In light of the discovery of the compound and the magnitude of its implication, the charges against her paled by comparison. If she could stay out of trouble until LeClaire was safely behind bars and his plan to overthrow the territorial government dismantled, she might be able to get her life back.

In the meantime, the fact she'd just saved the two men from a disagreeable encounter up in the hills – and possibly their lives, in the process – seemed to have forged a degree of trust between the three of them. For the first time since she'd met Jim and Artie, she felt like they were all on the same side.

When they returned to Coyote Falls, Artie went to inquire about a messenger who could deliver the fake letter and also to book rooms at the local hotel. Jim and Jessie stabled the horses at the nearby livery. Jessie was tipping a ration of oats into Diamond's grain box when Artie returned.

"The messenger I hired confirmed LeClaire has an estate only a few miles from town," he said, keeping his voice low. "This fellow has delivered there before. He said LeClaire spends most of the day at the compound in the foothills but assured me he comes home for dinner every evening by 6 p.m."

"Good." Jim looked at his wristwatch. "That gives us time to clean up and be in place by 8 o'clock. Did you find rooms for us?"

"Yeah," Artie said, looking uncomfortable. "About that. They only had one room left so we'll all be staying together tonight."

Jessie narrowed her eyes.

"How many beds are in this room?" She could read the answer on Artie's face before she finished the question.

"Um . . . just one," he said. "But the proprietor assured me it's quite spacious."

"I don't care how spacious it is! I am not sleeping with the two of you in the same room, let alone the same bed!"

"You didn't have a problem with it last night." Jim's grin was unrepentant.

She rounded on him.

"That was different! That was on a train! And I was . . . I needed . . . oh, never mind! This is a hotel! You know what men and women do in hotels!"

"And you think they don't do that on trains? Come on, McCallister, you're not that naive."

Jessie closed her eyes and counted to 10. She poked Jim in the chest with her forefinger.

"Don't even . . ." she began. "I don't care who sleeps with whom in that bed but it's not going to be me. There'll be plenty of room for both of you." She pulled a face. "And that's weird."

Artie shrugged.

"Necessity makes for strange bedfellows. I don't hog the blankets and Jim doesn't snore, so we get along fine. Beats some of the places we've slept." He winked. "It wouldn't be so weird if you were there with us. We promise to be on our best behavior."

Jessie made an inarticulate sound of frustration.

"Not you, too. I thought you were the nice one."

Both men chuckled. She raised her hands.

"Never mind. I don't care. You two go get ready for tonight. Give me the room number and I'll come up when I'm done with the horses. I could use a bath, too." She saw the amused expression on Jim's face. "By. Myself." She glared at him. "And I'll sleep on the floor tonight if it's all the same to you."

"Your choice," Artie said.

"Your loss," Jim said. He grinned and the two men left the stable.

 **XXX**

Jessie stepped out of the bathtub and looked regretfully at the cooling water. After Jim and Artie had cleaned up and gone downstairs to establish themselves in the saloon, she'd waited while the maids brought fresh water, then lounged unapologetically amidst soap bubbles and steam until it had gone cool. She appreciated the hot bath more than she could say. She appreciated the fact the men trusted her enough to leave her alone in it even more.

The hotel proprietor was right about the bed. It was huge. It would easily sleep three people but she wasn't about to share it with two men she barely knew, no matter how many times they assured her they had nothing more in mind than a good night's sleep. She wasn't about to share it with just one of them, either, especially since she was sure that would be more dangerous than both of them.

She felt a little hypocritical in light of last night. No, she told herself firmly, no need to feel guilty. The nightmare about Danny's death had left her shaken. She hadn't lied to Jim when she said she just needed to hear someone breathing next to her in the dark. His solid presence had kept the demons at bay and she had slept well. That morning, neither of them had mentioned the fact she'd woken curled against his chest with his arms around her. She'd feigned sleep until he'd left.

She toweled off her skin and hair, wondering how long it would take the hotel laundry to bring her clothing back. She guessed she would just sit around in her nightshirt until then. It wasn't like she was going anywhere this evening. The men's plan to flush LeClaire into the open didn't include her. She could read. Or maybe catch a few hours of sleep before they came back. She was regretting her hasty declaration that she would sleep on the floor. The bedstead was a huge brass thing with a thick feather mattress and clean linens. By comparison, the floor looked particularly unwelcoming. Of course, if she turned on the charm, maybe the men would do the chivalrous thing and let her have the bed all to herself while _they_ slept on the floor. No, then she'd feel guilty about that.

Someone knocked on the door. Before she could answer, a key turned in the lock and the door swung open. Boots strode across the floor. She recognized that confident stride. She rolled her eyes and hastily wrapped the towel around her middle. Why had he even bothered to knock if he was just going to walk in anyway? God, the man was a law unto himself. Silk rustled. Was someone with him? No. There was only one set of footsteps.

"Get out! I'm not decent!" she called from behind the privacy screen that shielded the bathtub.

"Relax, I don't have designs on your virtue, McCallister. Hurry up, we need to get downstairs."

"We? I'm staying here."

"Change of plans. Now you're going downstairs with us." Jim's tone brooked no argument and Jessie felt her hackles go up.

"Why?"

"Not to put too fine of a line on it, but Artie and I both want you where we can see you."

So much for being left to her own devices.

"That's fine for you but what if LeClaire sees me? What if his bodyguards see me? They'll do anything he tells them – "

"Relax," Jim said. "Artie and I will be there. You'll be safe with us."

Jessie ground her teeth.

"I was with you earlier today. I got shot at."

Jim ignored her.

"We need you to point out LeClaire's body guards if you recognize them. We've only met one of them."

"I don't have anything to wear. My clothes aren't back from the laundry."

"That's why I borrowed this for you."

She peeked around the edge of the screen to see yards of lace-trimmed silk lying on the bed.

"What's that?"

Jim rolled his eyes.

"It's a dress. I assume you've worn one before."

She glared at him.

"It's not my style."

"It's your style tonight, sweetheart. Here. Put this on first, then I'll help you get dressed."

A bundle of fabric sailed over the top of the privacy screen. Jessie caught it.

"You'll . . . help . . . I don't think so!" she sputtered. The bundle turned out to be a clean cotton chemise. She eyed it warily. It was a frilly thing, trimmed with lace and ribbon that suggested it was the sort of garment a woman might wear when she had no intention of covering it with a gown.

"I'm just here to help speed things along. Trust me," Jim said. "Put that on and get out here."

 _Trust me._ That went both ways. Jessie made a face. She dropped her towel and pulled the chemise over her head. It was alarmingly low cut and she swore.

"Do you always swear like a sailor when you're getting dressed?" Jim's tone was both amused and impatient.

"Whoever you borrowed this from is not my size," she muttered.

"Why don't you let me be the judge of that."

There was no way around it. She stopped trying to make the chemise cover more than it was designed to and stepped around the edge of the screen. The exasperated humor on Jim's face quickly turned to open appreciation and his eyes raked over her without apology. She felt an odd jolt of heat run through. It had been a long time since a man looked at her like that. A second jolt reminded her Jim West had no business looking at her like that at all.

She turned quickly to the dress laying on the bed. It was sapphire blue silk with a daring neckline, off-the-shoulder sleeves and side flounces caught up to expose lace underpinnings.

"You expect me to wear _that_! It's a . . . a . . . a harlot's gown!"

"It's a saloon girl's dress," Jim said patiently. "I borrowed it from one of the girls who works here. You need to look your part."

"My part? I don't have a part! You and Artie are going to catch LeClaire and that's that." She eyed the dress again. "I can't go down there in this! I'd look like a . . . like a . . ." she sputtered, unable to get the words out.

Jim chuckled.

"Really? _Now_ you're worried about propriety? You're standing here in your shift, alone in a hotel room with a man you've only known for two days. And you weren't so uptight you wouldn't share a bed with me last night."

"I am not uptight!"

With a snarl, Jessie snatched up the dress. It smelled faintly but not unpleasantly of its previous owner's perfume. She put it back down.

"I can't wear this," she said triumphantly. "I'd never get into it without a corset and I don't have one."

Jim tossed her a second bundle.

"You do now."

She glared.

"I can't lace it myself, now can I?"

"That's what I'm here for."

"What do you know about lacing corsets?"

"I know more about unlacing them but it can't be that hard."

"No! That wouldn't be appropriate." She was grasping at straws and she knew it.

"Appropriate? Since when do you worry about _appropriate_?" His eyes raked her figure again. "McCallister, we can do this the easy way or we can do it the hard way but I'll get you into that dress one way or the other and I think you know it."

The look in his eyes was dangerous. Jessie knew she was fighting a losing battle but that didn't mean she had to like it. She shook out the corset and fumbled, trying to wrap it around her torso in a way that didn't put her breasts on display to the degree she suspected was intended. There didn't seem to be a middle ground and she swore again.

"Here. Let me."

Reluctantly, she handed Jim the assemblage of silk and whalebone. With unexpected gentleness, he drew it around her midsection. She held it in place as he began to tighten the laces. She shifted, trying to adjust her breasts without being obvious. He paused.

"Are you . . . ah . . . comfortable?"

Jessie looked down and grimaced. She'd passed comfortable a long time ago and it had very little to do with the corset.

"I'm fine. Just don't lace it too tight. I don't need a 17 inch waist."

Jim muttered something and yanked on the laces. He nearly pulled her off her feet and she grabbed the bed's foot rail.

"Easy!" she yelped. "You're not cinching a saddle!"

That brought a chuckle. She chanced a look over her shoulder, not letting go of the bed rail. The grin on his face indicated he was enjoying himself as he snugged the laces tight.

"That's a nice look, McCallister," he said quietly, surveying her after he finished. His gaze was bolder than it needed to be and Jessie was aware the corset had done its job. The chemise kept her from spilling out completely and added to the ensemble's allure at the same time.

"You don't have to wear the dress, you know," Jim said. "You could go downstairs like that. Some of the young ladies here – "

"Give me the dress," Jessie snapped. "I am not leaving this room in my underthings." She stepped into the gown and tugged it up. "I'll, umm, need you to button up the back." She struggled to adjust the bodice but it remained determined to display more of her than she thought was necessary. She hadn't worn a dress for months and had forgotten what a labor intensive proposition one could be. She'd take britches and boots any day.

"What did you say?" Jim acted like he hadn't heard.

"The buttons. I need you to do up the buttons."

"Mmmm. You need me. I like the sound of that."

"Stop it." Her heart was beating faster than it needed to. "Just button me up. I thought you were in a hurry."

Jim's fingers were warm against her skin as he fastened the row of tiny buttons that secured the back of the gown. He seemed to have forgotten about being in a hurry. Jessie fidgeted, whether out of impatience or the need to get away from his touch, she wasn't sure.

"Stand still. You're like a moving target."

"I think it might be safer that way," she muttered.

Jim laughed, a low, husky sound that did nothing for her state of mind. He finished with the buttons and gently tugged the sleeves down to rest just below her shoulders. When she protested and tried to pull them back up, he stopped her hand and said firmly, "These are meant to be worn off-the-shoulder."

"But I'll look like – " she started to protest.

"You'll look like every other saloon girl down there. We're hiding you in plain sight. Put these on." He handed her a pair of elbow-length, fingerless black lace gloves.

Jessie drew them on, starting to think this was a bad idea.

"Now do something with your hair."

"Stop giving me orders. What exactly am I supposed to do tonight? Dance on the bar?"

Jim paced the room as she sat down at the dressing table and began twisting her hair into an upsweep.

"LeClaire is meeting Artie at 8 o'clock. Once he's convinced Artie knows where you are – don't worry, Artie can be very convincing - he'll let his guard down because he'll be too focused on getting you back. I'll take out the bodyguard and Artie will subdue LeClaire. You can just be ornamental and stay out of the way." He cleared his throat and added, "I don't want you to get hurt."

"Ornamental? How kind of you." Jessie bit off the words, jabbing a final pin into her hair. "You mean, you don't want me to kill him."

"That too. Here, one more thing."

Jim stepped behind her and fastened a black velvet choker trimmed with crystals at her throat. Jessie caught her reflection in the mirror. Her cheeks were flushed, her hair tumbled in ringlets, accentuating the sleek curve of her neck. The choker sparkled in the lamplight and the dress, with its plunging neckline displayed every curve of her upper body. She was definitely _not_ the same size as the girl Jim borrowed the gown from.

He seemed to have realized that, too. He stood behind her, a grin playing over his features as his hands rested lightly on her bare shoulders. She took in his reflection, admiring the fit of his dark blue suit. The cut of the jacket emphasized his athletic build and the trousers fit just a bit more snugly than propriety allowed, she thought. For a second, their eyes met in the mirror and her breath caught. He was a devastatingly handsome man. When he wasn't driving her crazy. He was here to put an end to her stepfather's insane plan and if she wanted her freedom when it was all over, she had to cooperate. That was all she needed to have on her mind at the moment.

He squeezed her shoulders, stepped back and offered her his arm.

"Shall we?"

They paused at the head of the stairs. Below them, the saloon's evening clientele was in full swing. She had to look twice to find Artie, who was lounging against the bar. He was sporting mutton chop sideburns and was dressed like a Chicago private eye in a pinstriped suit and bowler hat. As soon as Jim tipped his hat, Artie returned the gesture.

"Remember," Jim said quietly in her ear, "you're a dance hall girl, not the prim and proper Miss Jessica McCallister from Nob Hill."

"I was never from Nob Hill," she snapped. "Wyoming is my home and I don't ever plan on leaving it again."

"If everything goes well tonight, you won't have to."

In for a dime, in for a dollar, Jessie thought. She flounced her skirt, revealing a daring amount of ankle and slipped her arm through his.

"Oh, Mr. West," she simpered as they descended the stairs, "you say the most charming things!"

The few the patrons who looked up from their drinks paid them no heed. Just another gunslinger in a sharp suit with a tipsy barfly hanging off him. It was business as usual in the Crooked Arrow Saloon.

 **XXX**

"Make yourself useful and bring me a drink." Jim handed her some coins. Jessie glared at him. "And smile, darling, you're supposed to be enjoying my company."

His lazy grin left her steaming. She bared her teeth in a smile and flounced to the bar to order two whiskeys. When she set them down on the table, his grin widened.

"I can only drink one at a time."

"The other one's mine," she said tartly. "So I can deal with this dress and this place and . . . you!"

Jim raised his glass.

"A toast," he said.

Reluctantly, Jessie raised hers to match.

"To what?" she asked suspiciously.

The hot blue flame of his eyes traced her figure, lingered, then returned to her face.

"To beautiful women who aren't what they first appeared to be."

Jessie's heart pounded. She was afraid to ask him what she'd first appeared to be or what he thought she was now. She tossed back half the drink in one swallow and nearly choked. She'd never been much of a whisky drinker. This might or might not be the right time to start, she thought.

"Go easy on that stuff," Jim said. "I need you sober enough to tell me if you recognize anyone."

Around them, liquor flowed, saloon girls served and flirted and a man wearing a houndstooth checked suit pounded out a ragtime tune on a tinny piano. Across the room, Artie leaned with one boot on the polished brass rail, watching the front door by way of an enormous plate glass mirror behind the bar.

"You could sit a little closer, you know," Jim said. His eyes scanned the room from their shadowy corner table. "And act like you're enjoying my company."

Jessie thought she was already close enough. He grasped the seat of her chair and dragged it until it nearly touched his. Then he rested his arm around the back, letting his fingers trail on her bare shoulder.

"And how much of my company do you intend to enjoy tonight?" she asked through gritted teeth, determined not to give him the satisfaction of seeing her pull away.

"How much would you like me to enjoy?"

She was unsure if he actually meant it or if he was only teasing. She opened her mouth to answer, then snapped it shut, her eyes gone wide as she stared at the entrance to the saloon.

"It's Nigel!" she said, horrified, "my stepfather's bodyguard from San Francisco! He can't see me! If he sees me, nothing will stop him from coming after me."

She felt Jim tense but he didn't take his arm from around her shoulders as he scanned the room.

"LeClaire isn't with him. He must have only sent his bodyguard to meet Artie." His voice lowered to a hiss. "Damnit, he'll recognize me, too."

The hulking, vacant-eyed man began edging through the crowded room, studying each face in turn before moving to the next table.

"Do something!" Jessie's voice was edgy with panic. She felt like a trapped animal. The saloon had a back door but if they bolted, they'd only draw attention to themselves and ruin any chance of capturing LeClaire if he were waiting in a carriage outside. Plus, she didn't want to dessert Artie and knew Jim wouldn't leave, anyway.

"What exactly would you like me to do?" Jim's face was only inches from hers as he turned away from the approaching man.

"I don't know! Anything to keep him from seeing me!"

"Kiss me."

It wasn't a request. Her eyes flew open in surprise.

"Kiss me," Jim repeated. "Jessica McCallister isn't likely to be carrying on with a man in a saloon, is she? And it will hide both our faces."

Jessie stared at him, speechless. Nigel drew nearer.

"But I . . . you . . ."

"We don't have time to discuss this in committee."

Jim swept off his hat, wrapped his hand around the back of her neck and took her mouth without apology. The embrace was rough, born of necessity, not passion, and she struggled in protest. Jim's scent – shaving lotion and leather and warm, male musk – filled her senses as she tasted the whisky on his lips. The combination left her paralyzed in his arms. He slid his other hand around her waist, pulling her closer.

Behind them, Jessie could hear the creak of floorboards, the heavy tread of a large man's boots as they drew even with the table, paused and went on. She tried to follow the sound, tried to gauge the direction in which it vanished, but Jim was occupying more and more of her attention. Unwillingly, she felt herself relax into his hands, his mouth still hard on hers, as the embrace shifted from brutal necessity to a swirling mix of power and sensuality.

Jim pulled back far enough to look into her eyes, then lowered his mouth again, gently this time. The kiss was long and slow and Jessie gave herself to it, letting her body respond to the warmth of his lips. It had been so long since a man had kissed her. Her arms wrapped around his neck, her lips parted, inviting his tongue to brush hers. Time stood still.

He broke from her mouth, teasing down her throat with light kisses that set every nerve in her body on fire. Jessie kept her eyes closed, her face buried against his hair, and abandoned herself to him. Her head was spinning, her heart pounding in her throat as his touch rekindled flames that had long lain cold. Conflict battled with desire. She should be thinking about her stepfather, should be focused on avoiding his terrifying minion. With a monumental effort she forced herself back to reality.

"Is he gone yet?" she whispered, breathless, unwilling to break the spell.

"Mmmm-hmmm," Jim said quietly, kissing the corner of her mouth before capturing the fullness of her lips again. She slid her fingers into his hair, letting them tangle there. When had he taken off his hat? Oh, before he kissed her the first time. Two minutes ago? Ten? Time was meaningless and she never wanted it to stop.

"He's been gone for a while." Jim murmured and kissed her again before she could reply but she jerked back, indignant.

" _For a while_? And you kept. . . you let me keep . . ."

"You weren't arguing." His smile was lazy, tempting her to kiss him again or knock him out of his chair.

"You didn't give me a chance!" she sputtered. Fury mixed with arousal and left her incapable of choosing between them.

"Are you two done?" Artie's dry tone drifted across the table. Jessie realized she was sitting on Jim's lap and felt a flush rise through her. As if she weren't hot enough. She tried to wrench free. He didn't let go.

"I don't know." His grin was infuriating. "Are we done, sweetheart, or is there anything else you don't want to argue about?"

 **XXX**

She argued about the sleeping arrangements when they got back to the room.

"Shall we flip to see who gets the floor?" Jim asked, pulling a coin from his pocket.

"I already told you – I'll sleep on the floor." Jessie spun in a swirl of indignant satin. "I'm not sleeping in that bed with either of you!" Her mind was still spinning from the events of the evening. Aside from discovering Jim was a complete rogue, their plan had been a failure. LeClaire had not shown up, or if he had, he'd waited outside while Nigel searched the saloon for traces of anyone he recognized. After Nigel left, Jim, Artie and Jessie had waited another hour before calling it a night and retreating to the room.

Jim chuckled and pulled off his jacket. He unbuckled his gunbelt and slung it over a chair. The vest and shirt came off next. Damnit. She forced her eyes away.

"Have it your way. You don't know what you're missing."

"I know exactly what I'm missing!" Jessie snapped, then clapped a hand over her mouth. Jim gave her the full benefit of a dazzling smile, which didn't help her state of mind, and Artie didn't even try to hide his smirk.

Jim kicked off his boots.

"I bet you do." His hands dropped to his belt buckle. Seeing her standing there, hands on her hips, he paused. "Need something, McCallister?"

She shifted uncomfortably. Yeah, she needed something all right and the sight of him standing there half dressed wasn't helping. She turned with a flounce to Artie.

"Would you unbutton my dress and unlace my corset? Please." Her tone was very polite.

Artie shot a look across the room.

"Jim, wouldn't you rather do the honors?"

"I think she's had all of me she can handle for one night." Jim started to drop his trousers.

Jessie narrowed her eyes and glared at him.

"You are no gentleman!"

"You didn't seem to mind earlier."

She clenched her fists. She noticed Artie had begun looking around the room in a preventive sort of manner, trying to gauge what she might grab up to crack his partner over the head.

"Let me know if you need any help with her, Artie. I'm going to bed."

Jessie turned away before his trousers hit the floor. She yanked her nightshirt out of her saddlebag with enough force she heard stitches rip and stepped behind the privacy screen. Artie followed her, though with some reluctance.

"Are you sure you really want me to . . .?" Artie gestured at her gown.

"Yes," she said firmly. "I am not sleeping in this dress or this corset and I can't get out of either one by myself."

Artie's hands were warm and efficient as he unbuttoned the gown, then loosened the laces and pulled them through the eyelets. Jessie stood, arms across her midsection to keep the garments from falling into a heap at her feet and breathed a sigh of relief. Even though Jim hadn't laced her tightly, a corset was still a corset.

Artie squeezed her shoulder, his hand warm on bare skin in a perfectly platonic way.

"Thank you," she said.

"Think nothing of it." He grinned, eyes friendly but teasing. "Are you sure you don't want half the bed? In fact, I could go sleep in the livery, for that matter."

"Yes. No! I mean, no, don't leave. I'm fine on the floor. Really," she said firmly and before he could ask, she added, "And I don't want a third of the bed, either."

"Let us know if you change your mind." Chuckling, Artie stepped around the screen.

Jessie let the gown drop. She peeled herself out of the chemise and hastily pulled her nightshirt over her head, silently cursing Jim for making her even consider Artie's offer to leave. She had bigger things on her mind and had absolutely no business thinking about anything else.

She rolled herself into the blanket on the floor and punched the pillow into submission. She lay awake for a long time before falling asleep. The hard floor under her had nothing to do with it.

TBC


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

Jessie woke the next morning feeling like the grain of the floorboards had imprinted itself on her very muscle fibers. She sat up and stretched to loosen the kink in her left shoulder. It didn't help. She rotated her arm, trying to ease the ache, wincing and scowling when that failed to bring relief.

A low chuckle sounded from across the room and she looked over to see Jim watching her. He was bare from the waist up, wiping his face with a towel. She could smell shaving soap and see steam rising from the basin in front of him.

"You'd have slept better if you'd joined us last night." He winked. "There was plenty of room."

"I slept perfectly well on the floor," she said. _Liar,_ a little voice in her head niggled _._ "There wasn't room for three people in that bed anyway." _Liar_. "It wouldn't have been proper." _Like you care._

"And you're worried about _proper_ now?"

Jessie decided not to dignify that with an answer. It couldn't be good if the voice in her head was starting to agree with Jim about sleeping arrangements. She pushed the blanket back and got to her feet. She'd slept in less comfortable places – cold hillsides, damp caves, drafty barns. She'd slept in more comfortable ones, too, but after their surprising intimacy in the saloon, she thought the further she stayed away from James West, the better. That certainly did not mean climbing into bed with him, even if Artie had been there as a reluctant chaperone. That was assuming Artie would have stayed if she hadn't made it clear she was sleeping on the floor. Artie was such a gentleman, he would have found somewhere else to spend the night so they could be alone.

Jim's kisses still lingered on her lips, as well as the hot and hard promise of his body against hers. Jessie felt a shudder run through her and closed her eyes, biting her lip in an effort to keep her face expressionless.. She knew what it meant to share a man's bed. Danny was the only man who'd ever touched her but their brief marriage had been intense and satisfying when they could steal way to find private moments together.

The interlude with Jim in the saloon had been a one-time thing, she told herself, a practical solution to an immediate problem. Nothing more. _Liar_. Oh shut up, she told the voice.

"Where's Artie?" she asked, trying to steer the conversation to safer ground.

"He went to get coffee." Jim opened the wardrobe and pulled a shirt off a hanger. He slung it over his shoulder and sat down on the bed to put on socks. Jessie looked around the room, trying to find anything else for her eyes to focus on besides his bare torso. Her eyes had other ideas. If there was an ounce of fat on that sculpted body, she couldn't see it.

Jim pulled his boots on, then, with the shirt still draped across one shoulder, returned to the wardrobe and began brushing what Jessie thought must be imaginary dust off the sapphire blue coat he'd worn the previous night.

"Are you going to put that shirt on or just carry it around?" she asked.

He turned, slowly swinging the shirt from one finger.

"Does it bother you?"

No, it didn't bother her. She'd prefer he not put it on at all. In fact, she'd prefer he take a few things off and lock the door but she wasn't about to say that. The way he was looking at her was practically like he was reading her mind anyway. She was saved from answering by the arrival of Artie bearing a tray with a coffee service and three mugs.

 **XXX**

"I'm going out to buy a new hat," Artie said half an hour later when the coffee was gone. He set down his mug and poked dismally at the powder burns around the hole in the crown. "I don't think this one projects the image I'm looking for."

"I'll go with you," Jim said, reaching for his own unpunctured hat. "We can talk to some of the locals and get a better feel for what's going on at the compound. And we need another plan to drop a net on LeClaire. Once we have him, we can figure out what to do with the army he's got marching around out there." He turned to Jessie. "If we leave you here, can you stay out of trouble?"

Jessie folded her arms across her chest.

"I'm not likely to go running up and down the street in my nightshirt, now am I?" she said tartly. "My clothes aren't back from the laundry."

Jim slanted a gaze at the sapphire silk gown hanging over the privacy screen.

"You could always wear – "

"No," Jesse interrupted him. She wasn't about to put that damn dress back on. She remembered all too well the way he'd looked at her when she was wearing it and everything that had happened afterward.

"I'd be happy to help you – " His grin was incorrigible.

"No." She pointed at the door. "Get out. I'm sure they'll have my clothes back soon. I'll put my hair up under my hat if I go out and no one will look at me twice. I'll meet you for supper."

"Be careful, McCallister," Jim said. "LeClaire knows you're here. Don't take any chances." He tipped his hat and he and Artie left the room.

 **XXX**

"The folks around here don't like it much but there isn't anything we can do." The clerk at the general store was a thin man with a bushy mustache and the nervous habit of looking around when he spoke as if he expected something to pounce on him. "We just keep our heads down and stay out of his way."

"The men, the ones Mr. LeClaire's got working for him, they don't come in here much," he continued. "Mostly, they get their supplies off trains and haul 'em straight out to the compound. Once in a while, one of 'em will come in for something but they don't linger. Spooky lot, I'll tell you. Don't talk. Can't get 'em to chat about the price of cattle or the weather or nothing. Just get what they want and go. And we're glad to see the south end of their north-bound wagons, too."

"Thank you for the information, Mr. Nelson," Jim said.

"You two fellers fixin' to do something about what's going on out there? That man, he can't be up to no good, whatever he's doin'."

"We're just gathering information at the moment," Artie said. "We'd appreciate you not mentioning it to anyone."

The clerk grunted and nodded to the window. The agents followed his gaze. A tall man with steel gray hair, narrow eyes and a hard mouth was exiting a carriage in front of the Coyote Falls Trust and Savings Bank. He scowled up and down the street as if finding everything he saw to be lacking.

"And that one's near as bad," Nelson muttered.

"How's that?" Artie queried.

"Baron Von Krauss owns half the valley, he does, and rumor has it he's getting ready to sell it to Mr. LeClaire for his daughter's hand in marriage. I pity that girl, poor sweet child won't stand a chance."

Jim coughed discreetly.

"Course," the clerk continued after another furtive glance around the empty store, "word has it she's not cooperating with the plan." He cackled and raised his bushy eyebrows until they met his receding hairline. "LeClaire ain't seen hide nor hair of her in months. She's plumb done gone vanished."

"Did she really?" Artie looked suitably surprised.

"Yessir," Nelson confirmed. "Mr. LeClaire even hired private investigators to bring her back. Lot of good that did him. They ain't found hide nor hair of her."

"You don't say," Artie mused.

"So that's Von Krauss?" Jim studied the figure. The man's features were set in an expression of cruel arrogance.

"In the flesh. Never met a man so disagreeable. He'd complain if you hung him with a new rope."

Jim and Artie watched as the man turned his disapproval on a group of urchins who got in his way as he marched toward the bank.

"I'd put my money on Jessie any day," Artie muttered. "That fellow couldn't move fast enough to get away from her."

The two men thanked the store clerk again for his information and stepped outside.

"What's Von Krauss doing here?" Jim said after the door firmly closed behind him. "I thought he was an absentee landlord who lived in California, like LeClaire."

"All the players are in one place." Artie leaned against a porch support. "I don't like the looks of this, Jim. Something is getting ready to happen."

 **XXX**

It was late afternoon when Jim stepped into the livery stable to check on the horses. He paused to let his eyes adjust to the shadows. Jessie's voice rose and fell in a quiet murmur from the end stall as he walked along the central aisle of the barn, his boots quiet on the packed dirt.

She was grooming Blackjack, her back to him, arm moving the body brush in smooth, efficient sweeps across the horse's flanks. In nearby stalls, Diamond and Liberty shone with the gloss of a thorough grooming, sweat stains and saddle marks from the previous day's ride no longer in evidence.

"You're a handsome devil, you know that?" she said conversationally to the horse, who flicked an ear in response. "But I can't imagine a man like him would ride an ugly horse, would he?" Jack nickered softly. "The two of you were made for each other." She ran the brush down a leg, straightened and slapped the animal affectionately. "Look at you and all that muscle. I bet we could be half way to Canada before you had to slow down." Jack tossed his head. Jessie laughed.

Jim crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. The laundry service had evidently come through with her clothes. The loose fitting buckskin breeches did nothing to hide the curve of hip and thigh and the tall leather boots only accentuated the length of her legs.

"Thought I'd find you here," he said and was gratified to see her jump. Jack laid his ears back in irritation.

"Damnit! Don't sneak up on me like that!"

"I wasn't sneaking. You were so busy talking to my horse you didn't hear me. Don't stop on my account."

She didn't turn, only slanted him a look over her shoulder, and he saw color rise in her cheeks.

"How much of that did you hear?"

He turned the question back on her. It seemed safer than dwelling on how nice she looked from this angle.

"You weren't thinking about stealing my horse and running away, were you?"

She turned to face him now, indignation stamped on her features. Damn, the girl was attractive when she was mad at him. Which, he mused, seemed to be most of the time.

"Of course not! I have a wonderful horse. I don't want yours. Besides, if I took Jack, I'd have to take his tack, too, and then I'd stand out like a sore thumb with all of _that_." She indicated the tooled leather saddle and bridle, resting on a nearby rack. The silver conchos adorning them gleamed in the soft light.

"What's wrong with all of _that_?" Jim was rather fond of the custom-made saddle.

"It draws attention. That saddle alone is a showpiece. And you have to keep it polished and maintain it. Look." She touched the silver trim adorning the saddle skirt. "This is loose." She jiggled it and it came off in her hand. She examined it. "The bail on the back is broken. I can fix that easy enough. I bet Artie has the tools I'd need in his lab." Without waiting, she slid the concho into her pocket. "See? Fancy decoration is nothing but trouble."

Jim noticed Diamond's saddle, resting next to Jack's. The leatherwork was utilitarian, worn but well-cared for and with nothing adorning it that would glitter. Her stepfather's lust for the precious metal had clearly not infected her. Jessie turned to toss the brush back in the tack box. Jim leaned an arm against the wall to block her way.

"I think you like trouble."

She froze, her eyes a bottomless well of jade green in the sunlight shafting through the boards. She looked impossibly wild and all the more beautiful for it. What the hell was he thinking, this had trouble written all over it. He didn't care.

He tipped her chin up and kissed her. She startled, a tremor of tension that faded into reluctant surrender as he pulled her into his arms. He kept the kiss light, letting her return it with the same delicious pressure he remembered from the previous night. He pushed her back against the stall, felt the soft heat of her body yield to his and he drew out the kiss with agonizing slowness. Neither of them spoke, then she whispered against his lips.

"Damnit, West, this is a bad idea."

"What's bad about it?" She smelled like horses and something that reminded him impossibly of dried summer flowers. She trembled and he felt her start to pull away.

"Stop running, Jessie." He caught her wrists and leaned in to take her mouth again. There was no hesitation this time. The embrace roughened as her response rose to match his demand. He released her arms, slid his hands around her waist.

He could taste her arousal, hot and sweet against his tongue as the kiss deepened. One of her hands slid down to stroke his hip. Her touch was light but not hesitant and he started to think she was right. This was a bad idea. They needed to be somewhere behind a door with a lock. And a bed. And a lot of time without being -

"Ah! There you two are!" Artie strode into the stable. "Guess what I found at – oh damn. Never mind!" He spun on his heel and headed out the door.

"Artie!" Jim called, stepping back. "Come back. There's nothing going on."

"Nothing? Now I'm nothing?" Jessie hissed furiously, jerking away. "You are impossible!"

The look in her eye made Jim question his sanity for playing with this particular fire. He'd been about 30 seconds away from pulling her into a clean stall and finding out just how much of a bad idea she thought he was.

"I really need to do nothing more often." Artie's tone was matter-of-fact. "In fact, I think I'll spend my next vacation doing nothing. Of course, I'll need to find someone who wants to do nothing with me first."

"I'd recommend finding a place where you won't be interrupted," Jim said. He held Jessie's eyes. "You never know how much nothing you might need until you get started."

"Oh shut up," she said. "Both of you."

 **XXX**

"We can't wait much longer," Artie said grimly. "If LeClaire isn't going to come to us, we'll have to go to him." He waved a long roll of paper. "I was able to liberate these from the cartographer's office this afternoon while the two of you were, uh, doing nothing. It's a map that shows the perimeters of LeClaire's compound."

The three of them were back in the hotel room, the men relaxing in their shirtsleeves as Jessie leaned against the wall, looking out the window at the busy street below, her mind racing in a dozen different directions.

Artie unrolled the paper on the table and weighted the corners with his revolver, a portable inkwell, a small bottle containing a sinister looking black substance and an innocent looking rock. Jessie had her doubts about the rock. The fact Artie had placed it with extreme gentleness made her suspect it was no more a rock than she was Father Christmas.

"I don't like it that Von Krauss is here," Jim said.

"You! What about me!" she snapped. "You aren't the one he intends to marry!"

"Jess, I keep telling you, as long as you're with us, you're safe," Jim said. "We just have to find a way to take your stepfather out of commission, re-program a couple thousand brainwashed men and make sure all the ranchers in the valley understand their land deeds are legal and binding."

"Is _that_ all?" Jessie paced, her boot heels clicking in agitation. She was as edgy as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rockers. No matter which direction she turned, there was a different problem coming at her. Her stepfather wanted to use her like currency to increase his land holdings. Von Krauss wanted to make her his next future late wife. The two men she'd trusted with her life for the last six months, Will and Luke Kincaid, were still sitting in the hoosegow in Cotter's Mill.

Not that she didn't trust Jim and Artie, but they were an entirely different problem. Artie, not so much, but Jim? He had problem written all over him. She didn't know _what_ he wanted. No. That wasn't entirely true. She had a pretty good idea of what he wanted and she hadn't exactly been saying no, had she? She suppressed a tremor at the thought of those stolen moments in the stable. _That_ was trouble for sure. There was too much at stake right now to think about . . . _that_.

Someone knocked on the door and a female voice called, "Maid service! Got the bathwater you called for, sir."

Artie looked at Jim.

"Did you call for bathwater?" His hand had already dropped to the butt of his revolver in preparation for an uninvited visitor.

"Yes – for Jessie. It was the least I could do, she groomed Jack for me. She groomed Liberty for you, too."

Artie relaxed and opened the door. A parade of chambermaids entered the room, carrying pails of steaming water they poured into the porcelain tub behind the privacy screen.

"You did this for me?" Jessie looked at Jim in confusion.

"I don't want you to smell like a horse tonight if you're going to sleep in the bed," he teased.

"I am NOT sleeping with you!"

The chambermaids looked at all three of them and giggled. Jessie felt her hackles going up. Apparently Artie sensed it.

"Maybe we could just have a nice dinner tonight and work on our plans for catching LeClaire," he suggested, making a soothing gesture.

"If you think for one minute you can buy my affections with a hot bath, you've got another think coming!" Jessie snarled, advancing on Jim.

"I do my best thinking when I'm relaxed," Artie plowed on, "and a dinner I don't have to cook would be very relaxing."

Jim gave her a lazy grin.

"I don't plan on buying your affections, sweetheart. So far you've given them for free."

Jessie made an inarticulate noise and clenched her fists.

"Or I could just stay here and make sure you two don't kill each other," Artie sighed in resignation.

The last maid tipped her bucket of water into the tub. She cast a knowing look at all three of them, then, smirking, left the room.

Jessie glared pointedly at both men. Jim looked up from the map, his hands braced on the edge of the table.

"What?"

"My bathwater's getting cold."

"Then what are you waiting for?"

"You," she said.

A dazzling grin broke over Jim's face.

"Are you sure there's room for both of us in that tub?"

"To leave!" Jessie hastily amended. "I'm waiting for you to leave!" She shot a look at Artie. "You, too!"

"Where would we go?" Jim shrugged. "The dining room isn't serving dinner yet. Get cleaned up and we'll all go down to eat together." He waved a hand dismissively, then bent over the map again. Artie joined him.

Jessie closed her eyes and counted to 10. That man and his arrogant assumptions! How dare he tease her about sleeping with him? Or worse, what if he wasn't teasing? What if he really meant it? She counted to 10 a second time and stepped behind the screen. Before she could change her mind – or come to her senses - she stripped off her shirt and trousers.

This was the third hot bath she'd enjoyed in the same number of days, but after so many months of living rough, she would never turn one down. She realized, belatedly, Jim had been quick to pick up on her affinity for hot water and soap. It was a thoughtful gesture. She just wasn't sure about the expectation that might come with it.

She dipped a toe into the steaming water, then sank in to her shoulders and tried to pretend she wasn't bare-ass naked, alone in a hotel room with two men she'd known for less than a week. She lathered up, wondering if she was any closer to putting an end to her stepfather's madness and clearing her name or just making things worse. As delightful as hot soap and water were, she felt like she'd leapt out of the frying pan into the fire.

 **XXX**

With the sound of water splashing on the other side of the screen, Artie caught his partner's eye.

"Do you want me to . . . uh . . . tonight should I . . . ?"

"What are you trying not to say?" Jim knew exactly what the older man had on his mind, he just wanted to hear him say it.

"Do you want me to find something else to do this evening so you can . . . uh . . . have a nice private dinner with Jessie and then . . . well . . . I mean, I've interrupted you doing nothing twice . . . I don't want to be a third wheel."

"Third wheel?" Jim chuckled. "Hell, Artie, half the time I think I need backup when I'm around that girl. The other half . . .," he shrugged, grinning. "I'm still not sure I trust her. Given the chance, I think she'd shoot LeClaire on sight and bolt, devil take the hindmost."

"Looked like you were trusting her just fine in the saloon last night. And again this afternoon."

Jim sighed. Artie was no fool.

"Call it taking advantage of the moment." The kiss in the saloon had started out as a simple evasive maneuver to keep them from being identified but it had escalated with an intensity Jim didn't think either of them had anticipated.

"If you hadn't taken advantage of the moment, I'd think you'd lost your touch. Really, Jim, if you want me to leave the room to the two of you tonight, just say the word. I can ride back and stay on the train. It's not that far."

"The word is no." Jim scrubbed a hand over his face. "I can't believe I'm saying that but we need to focus on this lunatic." He stabbed a finger at the map. "Until LeClaire is behind bars, he's the only thing on my mind."

"Uh-huh," Artie said. "You just keep telling yourself that."

 **XXX**

The dining room at the Coyote Falls hotel was at the height of the dinner hour. Jim, Artie and Jessie were seated at a table near open French doors that offered a view of the foothills, hazy green and gold in the summer evening, in the distance. In spite of Jim's suggestion about wearing the blue gown again, Jesse had chosen a pair of clean breeches, a long-sleeved shirt that laced at the throat and her boots.

She was aware of admiring glances from a number of men in the room but Jim's proprietary hand at the small of her back as they made their way to their table kept any of them from approaching her. Jessie wasn't sure how she felt about that hand but she hadn't been in a position to argue.

Her mind was a churning mess of uncertainty, all of it centered around men. Jim. Will and Luke. LeClaire. Von Krauss. Jim. Thankfully, Artie was the sensible presence who kept her on an even keel. If he were deliberately running interference to keep her and Jim focused on the task at hand, she could have kissed him for it. No. Wait. That would create a whole new set of problems.

Because of the crowded dining room, they weren't able to talk about strategies for dealing with LeClaire and conversation turned to more general topics. Artie regaled them with tales from his time on stage and both men reminisced about adventures during the war. Jessie found herself relaxing and enjoying both the food and the company. Artie was a delight and Jim was graciously well-mannered since he wasn't in a position to harass her about what she was wearing or where she was sleeping or the fact she was still under arrest on a laundry list of charges.

They were nearly finished with their meals when the headwaiter approached their table.

"Misters West and Gordon?"

"Yes," Jim confirmed.

"So sorry to interrupt you, sirs, ma'am, but there is a man in the lobby, requesting a word."

"Send him in, he can join us," Artie said, spearing the last bite of steak with his fork.

"I offered to seat him at an adjoining table but he refused. Said he only needed to speak to you for a moment and didn't want to disrupt your evening."

"You stay, Jim, I'll go see what he wants." Artie started to rise.

"My apologies, sirs, but he requested to speak to both of you. It's regarding a message from a Mr. Maurice LeClaire."

The two men exchanged a glance and rose in unison.

"Jessie, stay here." Jim looked around the crowded room, packed with diners enjoying their meals. "It's a public place. You'll be safe."

Jessie wondered if she would live to see the day when men would stop assuring her she was safe but she nodded. The agents followed the headwaiter through the crowded dining room.

 **XXX**

"Jessica!" The whisper was barely audible.

Jessie paused, fork suspended in mid-air. Jim and Artie had vanished into the outer lobby. The diners around her were engaged in private conversations. No one was paying any attention to her. She wrote it off as overactive imagination and returned to her meal.

"Jessie! Hey, it's me, Will!"

The voice was real. This time, she put her fork down and touched her lips with her napkin. The muffled whisper had come from the shrubbery just beyond the well-lit terrace.

"Out here, Jess. I can't come in."

"Will?" She looked over her shoulder. Jim and Artie were nowhere to be seen. She pushed back from the table and stepped quickly through the open doors and across the stone flagged terrace, searching the darkness for the unseen speaker.

"Will?" she queried again. "What are you doing here? How'd you get out of jail?"

"The sheriff released us. Luke's here, too. We need to talk. There are some things you need to know." Will's voice was hoarse, unlike his usual cheerful tenor.

Jessie bit her lip. She knew she should wait until the men could come with her but she trusted the Kincaid brothers with her life. They – along with her and Danny – had been thick as, well, thieves. What could they want? And why were they hiding in the dark like criminals if they'd been released from jail? She took a step beyond the imaginary safety of the circle of light. Her boots crunched on the gravel drive.

"Where are you?" Caution battled curiosity and lost.

"Over here." The rough whisper issued from behind the trees lining the road near the hotel.

"Where? I can't see you."

She took another step along the driveway, looked back over her shoulder and felt the safe glow of the dining room light fade.

Suddenly, rough hands grabbed her from behind. She tried to scream but fingers clamped hard over her mouth.

"But I can see you, darling," a familiar voice said as a figure stepped from the shadows.

Jessie's eyes widened in terror. Instead of Will Kincaid's ruggedly handsome features and deep brown eyes, her stepfather's face leered at her from the darkness. Another set of hands grabbed her, pinioning her arms to her sides. She lashed out with booted feet but was lifted off the ground even as she struggled to break free. Damn it! How could she have been so gullible? The Kincaids had never been here. It had been one of her stepfather's henchmen calling her name.

She bit down hard on the fingers over her mouth, tasted blood. The hand fell away with a grunt of pain. She sucked in a lungful of air and screamed a single name before another hand connected with her cheek. Her head rocked back hard and she had the brief satisfaction of hearing bone crunch as the back of her skull slammed into her unseen captor's nose.

"Be careful, you idiot!" LeClaire hissed. "The baron doesn't want his bride damaged." He laughed but the sound held no mirth. "He prefers to do that himself." He reached out and stroked her cheek. "It's so good to see you again, Jessica."

"You'll have to excuse me if I don't agree," she snarled, struggling. "You won't get away with this!"

LeClaire spun on his heel and motioned to the men, issuing orders. "Come. Bring her. But shut her up first."

Cloth was tied roughly over her mouth, muting her scream of anger. Jessie fought like a wildcat, kicking and scratching, but there were too many of them. The arms held her like iron as her captors drug her deeper into the darkness. She wrenched one hand free from the bruising grip on her wrist and jammed it into the pocket of her trousers, fingertips searching for metal. A chloroform-soaked cloth was forced over her nose, but before she slid into unconsciousness, she tossed the small silver disk she'd pulled from Jack's saddle back toward the terrace. In the tussle, no one heard the metal strike the flagstones and roll to lay face up, glinting in the moonlight.

 **XXX**

There was no one waiting to speak with them in the lobby. The headwaiter vanished back to the dining room and the concierge behind the desk only looked baffled when Artie questioned him. Guests milled about but none of them seemed remotely interested in the two men. Artie stepped outside to check the street in front of the hotel. Even as Jim realized the folly of their action, a scream echoed from the darkness beyond the dining room.

"West!" It was Jessie's voice, infused with terror, then silenced.

Jim bolted back into the crowded dining room. One glance at the empty table was all he needed to see. He rushed through the doors and crossed the patio just as a carriage thundered away into the night.

"What is it?" Artie rushed up next to him.

"He's got Jessie. Somehow LeClaire found out she was here." He cursed himself for letting it happen. The girl attracted trouble like a lightning rod. He should have never left her alone.

"How do you know they took her?" Artie reasoned. "Maybe she went to the ladies' room."

Jim bent and picked up something off the flagstones.

"This." He turned the silver concho on his palm. "It's off Jack's saddle. She was going to fix it." He closed his fist over the medallion. "LeClaire probably has spies all over the place. He saw us go to dinner, then pulled us away with that decoy. With Von Krauss in town he'll have her married in no time if we can't get her back!"

Artie was quick to grasp the situation.

"I bet they took her to his house. He wouldn't bother taking her all the way out to the compound."

"I'm not crazy about breaking in there but we don't have any choice now. We can get Jessie back and with any luck, take out LeClaire at the same time."

Within minutes, the horses were saddled and the agents galloped down the road, following carriage tracks in the moonlight.

 **TBC**


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

Jessie woke slowly, wisps of chloroform clogging her mind like fog. She tried to sit up and fear jolted through her when she realized she couldn't move. She was laying on a soft surface with her wrists bound above her head. She struggled, trying to twist free, but her legs refused to cooperate. Her ankles were also bound. For the love of God, this was the second time in three days she'd woken to find herself immobilized. She snarled in frustration and turned her head to look at her surroundings. She was on a bed in an ornately furnished room. Gas lights on the walls cast flickering shadows over the only other person present.

"Oh, my precious – don't fight it." A cold hand stroked her cheek. "It won't be long now and you won't have a thing to worry about."

She recoiled as the face of her stepfather wavered above her. Madness distorted his features, making him appear more cadaverous than ever.

"Maurice?" Her voice sounded like it was coming through a long tunnel.

"Really, my dear, you should call me father. I have your best interests in mind."

"You've never had my best interests in mind." Jessie yanked at her hands again but the bindings held tight. "Why are you doing this? What do you want?"

"To see you married to the Baron." He smiled coldly. "You didn't really think you could elude me forever, did you? Once you're his, the last piece of the Trouble River valley will be mine and I'll have the resources to launch my takeover. The territorial government will fall before anyone in Washington knows what happened."

"You're insane! I am not marrying anyone!" She struggled furiously. LeClaire gripped her shoulders and pushed her down against the pillows.

"Stop acting like a child. You'll cooperate soon enough." His smile sent ice down her spine.

"What do you mean?"

"The doctor will be here soon and we'll put an end to this rebellious behavior. You'll be the proper, compliant bride you were meant to be."

Compliant? Jessie was pretty sure she wasn't having any of that. She redoubled her efforts to break free but the bindings didn't give.

"Doctor? What doctor?"

"Just be quiet and it will be over soon enough. He promises you won't remember a thing."

"What are you going to do?" her voice rose in a panicked shriek as realization dawned.

"Just a little of my magic potion." Maurice patted her cheek again and stepped away from the bed. "You'll forget everything about who you were before. The only thing you'll care about is doing whatever your husband tells you. Just a little dose and – " he glared at her, all false semblance of a loving parent vanishing as his voice hardened, " – then you'll marry Von Krauss and stop being such a pain in my ass."

"I will not!" Genuine fear was starting to creep in. She'd seen the results of that serum, remembered the vacant-eyed servants in her stepfather's house. And given that she was tied hand and foot, she wasn't in any position to say what she would and would not do.

"Oh, yes, my dear, you will. You won't remember a thing about your former life and you won't argue with the Baron." LeClaire waved a hand negligently. "He can do whatever he wants with you, I don't really care."

The door opened. A stout man wearing a white lab coat and carrying a Gladstone bag stumped into the room. He had rumpled gray hair and the thick lenses of his glasses distorted his eyes. LeClaire greeted him with an oily smile.

"Ah, Dr. Scheidt. I've been expecting you. The girl is right here."

"Ah, very vell. Vee vill begin. A little of my magic serum and you vill start a brand new life, yah?" the man said to Jessie.

Jessie glared. Her current life wasn't exactly what she'd always dreamed of but she suddenly found herself very unwilling to give it up.

The doctor approached the bed and gave her a long appraising look. He leaned over her, lifted an eyelid, squeezed her mouth open and poked her in the ribs. She squirmed furiously, trying to get away.

"Get your hands off me!" she snarled.

The doctor laughed. Jessie thought there was something oddly familiar about that laugh.

"You are pretty girl, yah? You vill make beautiful vife." Dr. Scheidt leaned closer and prodded her arm as if checking her veins. She tried to wrench away. He winked at her and lowered his voice. "Don't say anything, Jess. Just keep fighting."

With a jolt, she recognized Artie's warm brown eyes behind the thick lenses. She let out a shriek and redoubled her efforts to get loose.

"Get away! Don't touch me! You can't do this, you evil, horrible man!"

Artie turned his back, blocking LeClaire's view, and grinned with amusement.

"Don't vorry, it vil not hurt, not one little bit, zen you vil be oh so happy, no pesky memories to make you sad. You vill do vat you are told and ve vill all be happy, yah?" Artie reached up under the pretense of checking the strips of cloth that bound her wrists. He pressed something into her hand. Jessie's fingers closed over the small knife.

"Wait for my signal," he said quietly. She nodded, then cut loose with a string of Scottish invective.

"Can't you hurry up?" LeClaire asked, pacing. "Her yelling grows tiresome. I want her sedate by the time the Baron arrives."

Artie made a great show of laying out a hypodermic needle while Jessie continued to swear at him. He removed a small glass vial from his bag. Somewhere on a lower floor of the house, she heard muffled shouts and a series of crashes. It sounded like furniture breaking or bodies hitting walls. Or both. Artie heard it, too, and began talking loudly.

"Zis is zee potion, right here, just a few drops and zee memory – pouf!" he made an exploding motion with one hand. "Zee memory is gone. Nothing, just happiness and peace. And zat is zat, yah?"

"Yes, yes, just hurry it up. We're wasting time," LeClaire snarled.

"Yah, yah, just so." Artie drew the liquid into the syringe.

Another crash sounded, this one just outside the door, followed by the sound of fists pounding flesh. There was a great deal of swearing and grunting and Jessie thought she felt the bed shake as something heavy ricocheted off the wall. Artie made a show of pressing the needle against her arm. She let out a heart-rending scream just as the door to the room flew open and Jim staggered in.

"Now!" Artie jumped back, all traces of the phony German accent gone. Jessie hacked blindly at the cloth binding her wrists as Artie tore off the white lab coat to reveal his usual jacket and gun.

Jim spun and slammed the door into the face of the man pursuing him. The man crumpled. Jim grabbed a second guard by the shirtfront and tossed him back over the threshold. The man stumbled and fell down the staircase, crashing into several others who were running toward the commotion. They all vanished in a tangle of limbs and gravity. Jim shoved the fallen guard out of the way, slammed the door shut and jammed a nearby chair under the handle.

"What is the meaning of this?" LeClaire demanded, charging at Jim. The agent didn't bother to answer and dropped him with an almost casual punch. LeClaire collapsed to the floor like a deflated balloon.

"I take it the real Dr. Scheidt is out of the picture?" Jim asked, wiping blood from a cut at the corner of his mouth.

Artie grinned and pulled off the glasses and frizzy gray wig.

"Out like a light, bound and gagged in the basement. I thought about giving him a dose of his own medicine but that seemed extreme. He'll just have a headache when he wakes up tomorrow."

The bedroom door shook violently as fists pounded against it.

"I thought we planned to go out the same way we came in," Artie observed, "but I also thought this was supposed to be a quiet rescue. It appears that's changed."

"Plan B." Jim surveyed the room. "There were more guards on duty than we anticipated. Half of them have had their minds altered. Apparently LeClaire showed them a picture of me and told them to kill me. You, too, Artie." He turned to Jessie. "You all right, sweetheart?"

She shook her wrists free and sat up.

"Dandy. You took long enough."

"Everyone's a critic," he said, grinning.

Jessie used the razor sharp knife to slash through the leather straps holding her ankles and swung off the bed. The combination of being chloroformed and tied up left her dizzy. She swayed and felt her balance abandon her. Jim caught her before she fell, one arm circling her waist, and propped her up.

"What do we do with him?" Artie gestured at LeClaire, who was still sprawled on the hearth rug.

"Leave him. I'd hoped we could take him with us but we're going to have our hands full just getting ourselves out in one piece."

"No! We can't let him get away!" Jessie yanked loose from Jim's arm, teetered and bounced into Artie, who gripped her shoulders and steadied her. Across the room, the door bulged ominously.

Jim strode to the window and looked out.

"Jess, there are a house full of armed men on the other side of that door with orders to kill me and Artie on sight. God knows what he's told them to do if they see you outside of this room. The horses are 50 yards outside of the gate. If we get out of here, can you run?"

Jessie swallowed hard. Artie was still holding her upright. The room tilted alarmingly when she tried to take a step.

"I don't know." Whether or not she could run seemed insignificant. There wasn't anywhere to go. That didn't seem to bother Jim. He made a dismissive gesture.

"One of us can carry you." He studied her. "You wouldn't happen to have your collection of pig stickers with you? Or your Derringer?"

Jessie shook her head.

"Just my boot knife. I thought you two were taking me out to dinner. If I'd known the night was going to come to this, I would have dressed for the occasion."

"Coming from any other girl, that wouldn't make sense." Jim grimaced. "We're outnumbered, low on weapons and if we have to fight our way out, one of us has to keep you from falling on your face."

Angry voices yelled outside the door and a volley of crashes rattled the frame. On the floor, LeClaire began to stir. Jim flattened him with a blow between the shoulder blades, then strode back to the window and threw open the sash. Jessie watched as he gauged the distance from the window to a large tree just beyond the spikes of the tall, wrought-iron fence that surrounded the house. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a metal piton attached to a length of thin filament and fitted the end into his Colt. Taking careful aim at the tree, he fired a single shot. The piton's head stabbed into the trunk with an audible thwack and the wire uncoiled neatly behind it. With efficient movements, Jim attached a pulley with a wooden handle to the line, then secured the wire to the massive, carved headboard of the bed.

He motioned to Artie.

"You go first – take Jessie, then cover me."

Artie hesitated.

"Jim, I don't know if that wire's strong enough to hold two people at the same time. If it breaks with us on it, how will you get out?"

"If it breaks when you're 50 feet in the air, I'm going to be the least of your problems."

Artie shook his head.

"How will you get down if we take the handle?" Jessie pointed out. "You don't have any gloves and you can't slide across on that bare-handed."

Jim picked up one of the restraints LeClaire had used to secure her legs. He flexed the thick leather, curving it into a loop, and shrugged.

"This will have to do."

"The wire will cut through that before you get half way down!" Artie protested.

"Maybe you'd rather wait and see what they have in mind." Jim jerked a thumb toward the door. "I don't think they're going to ask us to stay for after dinner drinks."

It sounded like someone in the outer hall had procured a battering ram. Wood splintered. One of the door panels bulged, then crashed inward. A hand wielding a gun appeared and began firing blindly.

"Go!" Jim yelled and chopped down hard on the arm. The unseen opponent howled with pain and the gun clattered to the floor. The assailants in the hallway revisited the wisdom of entering the room and started firing through the door. Jessie snatched up a lantern from the bedside table and lobbed it through the jagged hole in the door panel. The sound of shattering glass was followed by screams as the oil splattered and ignited. Jim reached into another pocket and tossed a small object out into the din. There was a resounding explosion and smoke billowed, adding to the confusion.

"That will hold them off for a minute, now go!"

"Ready?" Artie stepped onto the window ledge and grasped the zip line handle. Jessie climbed up next to him. The ground seemed dizzyingly far below them.

"Tell me you've done this before," she muttered.

"Jumped out of a window while being pursued by mad men?" He laughed. "A couple of times."

Jessie squeezed her eyes shut as she wrapped her arms around his neck. Artie grabbed her tightly around the waist with one hand and gripped the handle with the other.

"I'm right behind you, don't stop for the sights," Jim said.

Without another word, Artie pushed off the window ledge. Jessie would have screamed if she hadn't been too scared to draw a breath. The angle of the line ensured they didn't accelerate too rapidly but soaring through the dark, 50 feet above the ground, was terrifying no matter the speed. They careened madly across the courtyard and Jessie swore she felt fence spikes brush the soles of her boots. Then they were at the end of the line, colliding painfully with the tree trunk. Artie let go of her and they dropped the final four feet to the ground.

Jessie looked up to see Jim silhouetted in the window. She bit her lip when he launched himself onto the zip line, moving with inexorable slowness as the leather strap began to slide jerkily. Gravity helped increase momentum and he slowly began to gain speed.

Jim was nearly to the fence when several figures appeared in the window and the sound of gunfire ripped the night. Jim swung his legs up and wrapped his feet around the wire to present a smaller target. Artie shoved Jess behind the tree as the gunmen peppered the night with multiple rounds. Darkness and distance hampered their accuracy but bullets bit into the trunk above them, shredding leaves and showering them with bark.

When Jim was 10 feet from them, the leather strap snagged on the wire and he dangled in place, suspended above the wicked fence spikes. Then one of the shooters in the window got lucky. Jessie saw Jim's body jerk as a bullet slammed into him and a fine mist of blood erupted from an upper arm. The leather strap chose that moment to break and only an athletic twist of his body, like a pole vaulter clearing the bar, kept him from being impaled on the fence. He fell heavily to the ground and lay, motionless.

Artie thrust his Colt at Jessie.

"Cover me." He didn't give her time to reply and, crouching, ran toward Jim. The shooters above them sent a rain of hot lead pouring into the darkness. Jessie stepped from behind the tree, took aim at the figures backlit in the window and squeezed off several rounds. The big gun bucked in her hands and the shots went wild but the figures dropped back in the face of return fire. She clenched her smaller hands around the grip, steadied herself and fired again. One of the silhouettes plummeted out of the window and fell to the paving stones below. Artie got a shoulder under Jim's arm and drug him back into the relative safety of the shadows. Jim leaned against the trunk with a groan.

"How bad is it?" Artie asked.

"Flesh wound. They just winged me." Jim pressed a hand to his head. It came back bloody. "But I cracked my head when I landed. Come on, we've gotta get out of here. I think Jessie set the house on fire when she threw that lantern but they'll be after us in no time."

The trio started deeper into the surrounding woods. Jim stumbled. Artie grasped him firmly around the waist and hauled him upright. Jim's face was pale and sheened with sweat. Jessie wondered if he was hurt worse than he'd let on but they didn't have time to stop. His right hand was clasped over his left arm and blood oozed between his fingers. Her eyes on the dark trickle coming from the gash on his temple, Jessie wasn't looking where she was going and caught her boot in a tree root. She reeled, staggering, and nearly collided with another tree.

"Give me my gun back before you shoot yourself in the foot." Artie held out his hand. Jessie returned the Colt and he holstered it. Not letting go of Jim, Artie wrapped his other arm around her waist and steadied her. "Why do I always end up doing all the work?"

"That's what I like about you, Artie," Jim laughed weakly. "You're always here to remind me what a slacker I am."

"Everybody needs a hobby," Artie muttered.

It took an eternity to reach the horses. Jack and Liberty waited quietly as Artie untied their reins. Jim slumped against Jack, his face etched with pain.

"Where's Diamond?" Jessie asked sharply.

"We only brought two horses," Artie said. "We figured you could ride back with one of us. I hope you can ride better than you can walk."

In the distance, she could hear hoof beats. LeClaire's posse was coming after them already.

She nodded. Their adrenaline-inducing flight from the house had cleared her head.

"Good, you can ride behind - Jim!"

Jim tried to spring into Jack's saddle but dizzy from the head wound and unable to use his left arm, didn't make it. Artie leaped forward and caught him before he crashed to the ground.

"All right, we'll go to Plan B," the older man muttered.

"Artie?" Jim got his feet under him and pulled himself upright. He leaned heavily against the black, hand clenched on the saddle and eyes closed. "I think we passed Plan B a long time ago."

"Fine. Jessie, you ride Jack." Artie laced his fingers together. She stepped into them and he tossed her into the saddle. The horse dropped his head at the unfamiliar rider and gathered himself to buck. She reined him in, checking him with a soft word and he stilled, snorting. Jessie leaned down and grabbed Jim's wrist. He grasped hers in turn, and with Artie's help, climbed up behind her. His breathing was ragged with pain.

"Try not to fall off," she said and felt his good arm tighten around her waist. She ignored the metallic scent of blood. "I don't have time to stop and pick you up."

"You're all heart. Go!"

She gave Jack his head and with Artie and Liberty running next to them, they galloped into the darkness, leaving their pursuers behind.

 **XXX**

They easily outdistanced LeClaire's men who proved reluctant to follow them into town. Artie and Jess reined the horses to a sedate walk as they approached the main street. Not wanting to draw attention by staggering through the lobby in torn, bloody clothes, Jim insisted they stop at the hotel's back entrance. Artie took the horses to the stable while Jessie draped Jim's good arm over her shoulders and with her fingers clenched on his belt, drug him up two flights of stairs to their room. Panting, she dumped him unceremoniously into a chair and collapsed against the bed. Her muscles were burning and her cheek throbbed where one of her stepfather's henchmen had struck her. Her shirt was sticky with blood. She took little satisfaction in noting none of it was hers. She looked at Jim. His eyes were closed but his breathing was steady. The head wound had quit bleeding.

"Are you all right?" she asked. It was a stupid question, considering the circumstances, but she wasn't sure what else to say. The adrenaline rush of the last hour was fading, leaving her drained.

"Do I look all right?" Jim didn't open his eyes.

"Depends what part of you I look at." The words were out of her mouth before she could stop herself.

That brought a slow chuckle. Jim heaved himself upright in the chair.

"I'll live. Tell me more about the parts that look all right."

Jessie was saved from answering by the sound of a key in the door. She turned to see Artie enter with a basin of hot water, antiseptic and bandages. When she raised her eyebrows in surprise, he only shrugged.

"If you're around him long enough, you learn to be prepared. Come on, Jim, let's see how bad it is this time."

Jim eased out of his ruined coat. The upper part of his left shirtsleeve was a bloody rag, the deep scarlet contrasting garishly with the gold brocade of his vest. Methodically, he unbuttoned the vest and shrugged it off. When he began loosening his tie with the same deliberate motion, Jessie couldn't stand it any more.

"For heaven's sake," she muttered, stepping forward. Her fingers were quick to unwind the fabric and she tossed it aside, ignoring the surprise on his face. She looked at the bloody tatters of the shirt sleeve and after unbuttoning his collar, took both hands and ripped his shirt open and down over his shoulders. Buttons popped, sounding like hail as they landed on the floor.

"Nothing like a woman's gentle touch," Artie mused.

"The shirt was ruined anyway," Jessie said defensively.

"You don't see me arguing, do you?" The look Jim gave her was a little warmer than she thought the situation warranted.

The bullet had gouged a bloody furrow that ran from deltoids to biceps. Blood continued to trickle from the torn flesh. Jessie winced but Jim didn't seem terribly concerned and Artie was pouring whiskies all around. Jim tossed his back and held the glass out for a refill. Artie set a glass at her elbow. She ignored it. Dipping a cloth in the basin of water, she set to work, sponging away the blood caked on Jim's arm. She wasn't sure why she was doing this. His right hand was fine. He could have done it himself and she was about to tell him that when he twisted his head to look at what she was doing.

"You've got a nice touch, McCallister," he said quietly. "That's the first feminine thing I've seen you do." He paused, then laughed softly. "Maybe the second." His eyes sparkled and a vision of the kisses they'd shared that afternoon in the stable rose, unbidden, in her mind's eye.

"Oh be still," she hissed, then glancing at Artie, "What are you laughing at?"

He leaned against the armoire, chuckling.

"I'm just enjoying watching someone else clean him up and put him back together. It's a refreshing change."

"Does he do this often?"

"You have no idea."

Jim sipped his whiskey and didn't say anything. Jessie thought his color looked better and he'd stopped sweating. He wasn't fighting her, though, and she thought that meant he hurt worse than he was letting on. While she could have done without the bloodied and torn flesh, she couldn't help admiring the well-muscled lines of his body. Something in her face must have given her away. Jim put a hand on her arm.

"Jessie?" His voice was low, with a note of unexpected intimacy, and he gripped her wrist, stilling her hand. She was unprepared for the physical reaction his voice sent through her and jerked back involuntarily. He grinned but didn't let go. She caught her breath as those blue eyes held her as helpless as the solid grasp of his fingers on her skin.

"Thank you," he said quietly.

"You're welcome," she returned automatically without even thinking about what he was thanking her for. For covering Artie so his partner could drag him out of the line of fire? For keeping him from falling off Jack as they raced back to town? No, he'd held his own during that frenzied flight. For hauling his sorry butt up those stairs? For cleaning up the mess of his arm? Now that she thought about it, she thought maybe he owed her more than just a verbal thank you. Not that she needed to start thinking about _that_ again.

"Do you think this needs stitched?" she asked Artie, to take her mind off non-verbal thank yous.

The three of them all studied Jim's arm.

"Could you do it?" Artie asked. "If you can't, I can."

She shrugged.

"I've sewn up horses and cows before."

Jim pulled his arm out of her grip.

"If it's all the same to you, just put a bandage on it and be done."

She finished cleaning the wound, feeling the heat of his gaze on her the whole time. When she reached for a bandage, Artie handed her a small tin of salve.

"Use this first. It's an antiseptic and will numb the site for about 24 hours," he said.

Jessie opened the tin and sniffed cautiously, realizing too late she probably shouldn't inhale or ingest anything Artie had cooked up unless she saw him do it first. Her suspicions were unfounded. The salve was iridescent green and smelled cleanly of eucalyptus. She scooped it onto her fingertips, which immediately went numb in a warm, tingly sort of way. She raised her eyebrows in surprise and began working it around the bloody furrow on Jim's arm.

"One of your concoctions?"

"One of my favorites," Artie confirmed.

"I hope you re-formulated that stuff," Jim muttered. "The last time I used it, I couldn't feel my ribs for a week."

"Good thing. I'm pretty sure they were broken," Artie returned.

Jessie finished with Jim's arm, then cleaned the cut on his temple. She refrained from making any remarks about his hard head.

"You'll live," she said matter-of-factly, determined not to show any more emotion than he was. She was exhausted, her cheek ached and damn it, her backside felt like one big bruise. She'd hit the tree first when they came to the end of the zip line. Artie had a relatively soft landing by comparison.

"Your nursing skill is exceeded only by your compassion," Jim said drily. "Here. You better take this back." He stood and reached into his pocket. "For the next time you need to leave a trail of bread crumbs." He flipped the object toward her and she caught it reflexively. The silver concho was warm from his body heat. She slid it into her pocket without saying anything and started to turn away, her fingers unconsciously touching her bruised cheekbone.

He reached up and caught her wrist.

"Hold still."

"What - ?"

Before she could move Jim flipped the lid off the green salve, dipped his index finger in it and turning her face toward his, stroked it over her cheek. She jerked in surprise, both at the lightness of his touch and at the immediate numb warmth that spread over her abraded skin. He let go of her.

"Better?"

"Yeah. Thanks."

Abruptly and with no sign of self-consciousness, Jim pulled off his boots, stripped out of his trousers and wearing only his small clothes, threw back the blanket and got into bed.

Before she could react, Artie picked up the pillow and blanket she'd used the previous night and fashioned a bedroll on the floor. He stretched out on it and clasping his hands behind his head, sighed and said, "There's nothing like pulling up a nice soft patch of floor at the end of a long day."

"But I was going to . . ." Jessie started. She looked around desperately. There were no other spare pillows or blankets, only the ones on the bed. Jim put a possessive hand on the pillow next to his and grinned at her.

"Your choice," he said and patted the quilt.

"Don't even! I'll go sleep in the stable with the horses." Her hand was on the doorknob when Jim's voice stopped her.

"LeClaire's men are still out there, Jessie, and I've already rescued you once today. It's a little much to expect me to do it again."

She turned back, resigned.

"You're welcome, by the way," he added.

She blinked in confusion.

"What? Oh. For rescuing me. Thank you." She turned to Artie. "Both of you."

"Think nothing of it, my dear," Artie said and made a show of tipping his hat down over his eyes.

She stood awkwardly. Jim cleared his throat.

"Are you going to stand there all night?"

She didn't answer. Her options were becoming increasingly limited.

"Come to bed, Jessie. I can't feel my left arm and my head feels like someone hit me with a rock. Trust me, you've never been safer."

She narrowed her eyes. There were a lot of words she could use to describe Jim West and she was damn sure _safe_ wasn't one of them. Especially if she was faced with climbing into bed with him.

"We all need a good night's sleep if we're going to figure out what to do with LeClaire," he continued, as if that were really the topic at hand.

She stared at him. He was sprawled on his back, one arm behind his head, watching her with lazy interest and looking better than he had a right to. He was as insane as her stepfather if he thought she was going to sleep with him. She bit her lip. It didn't look like she was going to sleep anywhere else, either. Artie had commandeered the spare blanket and pillow.

Fine. Just fine.

Reluctantly, she pulled off her boots. She tugged the leather tie out of her hair and let it fall loose over her shoulders, then untucked her shirt. She paused, hands on her belt buckle.

"You're a suspicious little thing," Jim said dryly. "Don't you trust me?"

"Ha. Do you trust me?"

He only grinned. Glaring, she deliberately unfastened her belt and trousers and let them drop, then stepped behind the screen to change into her nightshirt. Jim chuckled and flipped the blanket back as she emerged.

"Not entirely, sweetheart, but don't worry, I'll stay on my side."

This was insanity, she thought, but he was right. Jim was hurt and Artie was sleeping three feet away. Nothing was going to happen. She trusted both of them. That wasn't the problem, she thought. She wasn't entirely sure she trusted herself.

She settled herself into the feather mattress, deliberately hugging the outer edge, and felt the avalanche of the day's emotions slowly fade as warmth and comfort overcame her. The last thing she remembered before she fell asleep was a warm hand brushing her bruised cheek, then resting on her hip. Clearly, Jim had forgotten his promise to stay on his side of the bed. She was too exhausted to argue.

 **TBC**


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

"There are only two guards on the front gate." Jim lowered the field glasses and passed them to Artie. "That's not many for a compound that size."

"It must be a formality. I can't imagine anyone trying to break in there," Artie mused, studying the scene in the valley below them.

"And if most of the men are under the influence of that serum, none of them are going to try breaking out, either." Jessie shifted uneasily. They'd ridden out early that morning for a second recon of LeClaire's compound. This time, they kept a cautious distance, wary of any lurking perimeter patrols.

She stuck out her hand. Artie gave her the field glasses. She focused on the encampment where men scurried back and forth like insects in the sunshine.

"Did you notice the cannon and supply wagons have been moved since we first saw them? They're all lined up, like they're ready to move out." She lowered the glasses, dread building in the pit of her stomach. "It's barely after breakfast and there's already smoke pouring from the smithy. I bet he's got men working around the clock to get the horses shod. He's not planning to stay here much longer. Whatever we're going to do, we need to do it soon."

If either of the men took issue with her use of the term _we_ , they didn't acknowledge it. They either trusted her or had given up on the notion of leaving her on the sidelines while they did whatever they were going to do. The events of the previous night – her kidnapping and rescue, followed by the blend of honor and teasing that found her sleeping in the bed with Jim while Artie took the floor – seemed to have fused the three of them into an unquestioning partnership.

They returned to the horses and rode back to Coyote Falls in silence, each lost in their own thoughts. Jessie's thoughts were not focused solely on the matter of her insane stepfather's bid to conquer the territory. She'd woken that morning nestled comfortably against Jim, his injured arm draped around her shoulders and her back pressed against his chest. It had been a decidedly more intimate experience than the night she'd slept in his bed on the train, when he acted like it didn't matter the next day. This morning, the smoky look in his eyes when they woke hd made her want to grab the edge of Artie's blanket, roll him out into the hallway and lock the door behind him.

The feeling was unsettling, to say the least. Jim had no business suddenly turning attractive. No, she corrected. He'd been attractive from day one. She was the one who had no business letting those bluegreen eyes and that heart-twisting smile knock her defenses down. She had enough on her mind already, thank you very much.

The road into town passed the stockyards near the rail line where fat cattle destined for Fort Worth waited to be loaded onto southbound trains. Jim, Jess and Artie reined up to wait for a team of drovers pushing a herd into an open corral. Several tough little cattle dogs worked back and forth behind the animals, darting in every now and then to nip a hind leg and keep them moving. The cattle were a mix of Texas long-horns, with their impressive span of pointed head gear; Black Angus, new to American soil from Scotland, and Herefords. The air was filled with a cacophony of bawling and dust billowed from cloven hooves as the animals milled about.

"Even though we stopped LeClaire's plans to have Jess marry the Baron and take control of the rest of the valley, he's already got the men and the munitions he needs to launch a damned credible takeover attempt," Jim mused, leaning forward in Jack's saddle. "Even if he fails, he'll still make such a mess of things it'll take years to sort it out. He'll undo all the treaties we've built with the natives and make Indian affairs worse ten times over."

One independent minded steer made a break for freedom and took several followers with it. The speedy little dogs dashed around to drive the cattle back with their companions. The steer lowered his head menacingly, then charged, wickedly curved horns slashing. The dog flattened itself on the ground, gauged the approaching menace and landed a sharp nip on the animal's nose. The second dog moved in a blur, biting the steer's hocks and dropping to the ground as sharp, cloven hooves whistled over its head. The steer gave up and rejoined its companions. A spark of an idea ignited in Jessie's mind. The cattle in front of them and the nearby pens were at least 50 percent long-horns, a notoriously spooky breed that could be scared into headlong, panicked flight at the drop of a hat.

"We need the Army's manpower to shut him down," Jim continued, "but the Ninth Calvary is the only thing in the area and they couldn't get here for three days even if they left now. Last I heard, they were still north of Fort Laramie, dealing with the Arapaho."

"We don't have three days, Jim," Artie said. "You saw the changes out there – he's mobilizing now."

Jessie turned from watching the cattle as they moved into the holding pen and a yard worker swung the gate shut.

"I know how to stop him," she said, a look of blazing triumph on her face. "We can destroy his compound and ruin his supplies. That'll keep him from acting until the Army can get here to wrap things up. Send a telegram to Sheriff Campbell in Cotter's Mill. Tell him to let Will and Luke out of jail and have them meet us here." She glanced at the sun. "It's early, they can get here in time if they leave now."

Jim shot her a look.

"You're not asking for much, McCallister. You want me to let a couple of outlaws walk out of jail scot free? Can you guarantee they'll come here and not head straight for Canada?"

"They'll come if I ask them," Jessie returned. She knew in her heart the Kincaids would be at her side without hesitation.

"Then what happens?" Jim's expression flickered between skepticism and interest.

Jessie looked back and forth between the two men.

"Do either of you have any experience driving cattle?"

"Jess, we're Secret Service agents, not cowboys," Artie said.

"Just checking." She shrugged, grinning. "You seem to know how to do a lot of unexpected things." She nodded toward the cattle milling about in the rail yard pens. She estimated there were at least 500 head, maybe more. "Artie, could you go to the freight master's office and find out who they belong to? We'll need to know who to reimburse when it's all over."

"You don't mean – " Jim started, then broke off, a smile spreading across his face. He lowered his voice. "You don't mean to steal these cattle, do you, McAllister? Aren't the robbery, arson and counterfeiting charges enough?"

Jessie returned his smile.

"Where my people come from, cattle rustling is a family tradition. Besides, we're not really stealing them, more like borrowing. But the owners probably won't get them back."

"Wait a second," Artie interjected. "Why are we stealing cattle?"

"Have you ever seen a stampede?" Jessie's smile was feral. "After we drive this lot through LeClaire's compound, there won't be enough left to pick up with a spoon."

She sketched out her plan. Since the soldier's quarters were located away from the base's main street, they could drive the cattle through the heart of the encampment, destroying infrastructure and supplies with little risk to the lives of the brainwashed men, then capture LeClaire in the aftermath. What, exactly, they would do with the several thousand soldiers he'd pressed into service remained to be seen but they agreed they'd cross that bridge when they came to it.

Driving the cattle the five miles from the rail yard to the compound would take more than the three of them, though. While the flash of coins would no doubt buy the assistance – and silence - of local stockmen, Jessie was adamant about bringing Will and Luke into the plan.

"They've been in on this from the beginning. I want us to end it together," she said in a tone that challenged the men to argue. They didn't.

"If we want a snowball's chance of catching LeClaire in the compound, we'll have to hit it before he leaves for the day," Jim said. "If we're going to do this, it needs to happen this afternoon, otherwise those cattle will ship out on a freight tonight."

"Let's go back to the train. I've got a few things that might come in handy," Artie said, and they turned the horses toward the Wanderer, parked on a siding in the near distance.

Jessie was surprised at the men's tacit approval of her plan but neither of them had come up with a viable alternative so she guessed a crazy plan was better than none at all.

Now they just had to orchestrate the release of her outlaw partners, steal 500 head of half-wild range cattle, drive them cross-country and wreak havoc on a madman. Plus, she had no idea how they were going to get the gate to the compound open so they could drive the beasts inside. The entire caper suddenly seemed insane, its success or failure hinging on too many uncontrollable variables.

By contrast, Jim and Artie showed no reservation. They rode on either side of her, head shakes and hand gestures punctuating their animated conversation.

"We'll need something to knock down the corrals. Do you have enough timers to use that explosive putty?"

"Shouldn't be a problem if we wire them in a continuous circuit. How are we going to get it all in place?"

"I think Jessie can help us with that."

"I just finished a batch of double loaded flash-bangs. Those might come in handy."

The men's voices faded as Jessie's mind spun. A batch of flash-bangs? What the hell were those? Artie made it sound like he'd just baked a tray of cookies with some kind of special ingredients. Listening to the discussion, she got the distinct impression this wasn't the most insane thing they'd ever done. Not only did they seem perfectly comfortable with the insanity of it, they almost seemed to be enjoying themselves. She kept her mouth shut. What the hell had they gotten themselves into?

 **XXX**

Thirty minutes later, they were back in town.

Jim went to the telegraph office to send orders to Sheriff Campbell for the release of the remaining Robin Hood gang members with directions for them to proceed to Coyote Falls with all haste. Artie went to the freight master's office to make discreet inquiries about the ownership of the stock so the ranchers could be reimbursed for their loss. Jessie made it clear once the creatures were driven through the compound, most of them would head for parts unknown and she had no desire to spend the rest of her days trying to round them up again. She felt a slight pang at the thought of losing the Black Angus cows. Her parents' dream had been to establish a pure line with stock imported from Scotland. She sighed. There wasn't time to think about that now.

Early afternoon found her riding Diamond casually around the yards, chatting with workers under the guise of a rancher's daughter visiting town while her father sold cattle. The men were so distracted by the girl's winsome smile and flirtatious behavior they didn't notice Jim and Artie quietly placing small explosive charges with timers on the undersides of the corral timbers.

 **XXX**

When Will and Luke arrived four hours later, Jessie and the two agents were waiting on the edge of town to meet them. The Kincaid brothers were as rough and wild as the land they called home, their dark eyes quiet under the brims of their Stetsons and their unshaven jaws set with determination. Will's dark dapple gray and Luke's black and white paint were streaked with sweat from the hard ride.

Jessie swung out of Diamond's saddle and was immediately swept up in the men's embrace. Will wrapped his hands around her waist and swung her in a circle while she pounded on his chest with her fists and demanded, laughing, that he put her down.

"Are you all right, Jess?" Will finally set her back at arm's length. "We were awful worried about you. Sheriff Campbell wouldn't tell us anything except the Secret Service had taken you into custody. Have they – " he glanced at Jim and Artie, " – treated you all right?" His voice held the unspoken threat of retribution if her answer wasn't affirmative.

Jessie tried not to think about the sensation of Jim's hand on her hip last night as she'd fallen asleep or the solid heat of his body next to hers when she'd woken that morning. That was none of Will's business. She didn't doubt for a minute he'd challenge both agents if he thought her honor had been offended and a brawl was the last thing they needed right now. Besides, she hadn't been offended.

"They've treated me fine," she said hastily, trying to defuse the situation and get her emotions under control. She was aware of Jim's eyes on her and the lazy smile on his face told her he knew exactly what she was thinking. At the same time, Will and Luke were looking at Artie with a great deal of distrust. She didn't blame them. Their first meeting hadn't been exactly cordial. Being tricked, drugged and waking up in jail left the sort of impression that didn't fade quickly.

Will brushed his thumb lightly over the bruise on her cheek.

"What happened here?" The suspicion was back in his voice and he glanced again at the two agents.

"They didn't have anything to do with that," she assured him. "Listen," she took the brothers by their elbows and drew them close. "You can trust them. They're going to help us take down LeClaire and stop this madness once and for all."

"What the hell, Jess, now you're on the side of the authorities? The same ones that would see us hang in a heartbeat for what we've done?" He looked at Jim and sneered. "And since when did you roll over for a pretty boy in a sharp suit? I didn't think you were such a - "

What he thought she was remained unsaid. Jessie shoved Will hard in the chest with both hands, knocking him back a few steps. He blinked in surprise. Standing six feet, two inches he towered over her but she went toe to toe with him, bristling with fury.

"You watch your mouth, William Kincaid! James West and Artemus Gordon are the only things standing between you and the gallows right now." She shoved him back a few more feet and he went, unresisting. "And I'll have you know I haven't _rolled over_ for anyone. And if I did, it wouldn't be any of your damned business." She was vaguely aware of Jim smothering a laugh behind her. She turned on him. "I don't remember asking your opinion!"

It was Will's turn to chuckle. He still looked skeptical but slightly abashed. He tipped his hat, ran fingers through dark hair and resettled it. He held out a hand to Jim.

"I don't know what you did to get her on your side, mister, but she seems to like you and that's good enough for me. I reckon we'll listen."

"It wasn't easy," Jim said, shaking Will's hand. Jessie thought the handshake had all the earmarks of turning into an unspoken power struggle and hastily stepped in to make introductions. Once she decided she could turn her back on the men without it turning into a snarling dog fight, they remounted and rode back into town.

"Jess tells me you two are who we need to get this bunch of cattle from point A to point B," Jim said, waving a hand at the teeming mass of horns and hides in the stockyard.

Will looked over the pens, one eyebrow arched in consideration.

"If that's what she's got in mind, we'll make it happen."

"Tell me something," Jim said, reining in Jack to allow Artie and Jess to ride ahead of them. "Has she always been this good at giving orders?"

"Yes, sir," Will answered. "I've known her all my life and she's never been a girl to take lightly. Once she commits to something, it's going to happen."

"That's what I thought."

And with that the group retired to a corner table of the Crooked Arrow saloon to finalize their plans.

 **XXX**

Jim leaned back in his chair and watched as Jessie ran through the plan for the last time, pinpointing each crucial step and orchestrating the timing for Will and Luke's benefit. The boys listened thoughtfully, asking questions and making occasional suggestions. It was clear they were used to working together and Jim found himself welcoming their assistance with honest respect. They might be outlaws but they knew how to take orders and that was going to be the bare minimum required to pull off this caper.

Artie set down his beer mug and checked his pocket watch.

"Four:fifty. Almost time for the southbound freight to arrive. The hour is upon us, gentlemen. And lady," he said, and the group rose to leave.

Jim caught Jessie's upper arm and held her in place, aware the others were watching. Leaning in, he said quietly, "It's fun watching you in action, McCallister. Just don't think you're always going to be in charge of things."

She looked up at him in surprise.

"What are you talking about?"

"If Artie hadn't been there, you would have found out this morning." He squeezed her arm and winked, enjoying the flush of color that rose in her cheeks at the implication. When she didn't say anything, he brushed his lips lightly over hers, aware of Will turning away with an audible snort.

"Be careful once this thing gets started. I don't want to have to answer to those two boys if you don't come back in one piece."

She swallowed hard, then to his surprise, twisted her fingers in his hair and pulled his mouth down hard on hers.

"You, too," she said softly when they broke apart.

Jim looked at the others.

"Let's go."

 **XXX**

Shortly after 5 p.m., when most of the stockyard workers had clocked out for the day and were quenching their dusty throats in the Crooked Arrow, a series of explosions blew the fences on the east side of the yards to pieces. The startled cattle charged en masse through the shattered timbers.

As men abandoned their beers and stumbled onto the saloon's front porch, the 40-car freight from Laramie steamed into the depot, cutting off access to the stockyards on the other side of the tracks and eliminating any chance of men mounting up to outrun the cattle and turn them back. The puffing engine with its billows of steam and metallic cacophony of bangs and hisses solidified the cattle's commitment to their migration toward the northeast hills.

The vague figures of five outriders could be seen through the dust but whether they were driving the animals onward or attempting to stop them remained the subject of heated discussion among townsfolk for years to come.

 **XXX**

Once free of the confining pens, the cattle's collective herd mind took over. Smelling greener pastures, they were content to keep moving with only slight pressure. The fact the plan's initial steps had gone off without a hitch had Jessie thinking they might actually pull it off but she wasn't about to let her guard down.

Three miles out of town, Jim drew Blackjack even with Diamond and Liberty as Jessie and Artie pushed the herd from the rear. Will and Luke swept up and down the perimeter, keeping strays from scattering. They needed every beast they had.

"I'll ride ahead and get the gates open at the compound," Jim said. "Then I'll swing back and meet up with you before the final push."

"What's your plan?" Artie asked. "Knock on the front door and see if they want to buy any snake oil?"

Jim grinned.

"Ask the criminal mastermind what she'd suggest. I'm just making it up as I go along."

"I am not a criminal mastermind!" Jessie said indignantly. The truth was, she had no idea how Jim was going to get that gate open. She'd been hoping he had his own plan.

"You could have fooled me, sweetheart." He tipped his hat and cantered off before she could answer.

"Does he know what he's doing?" she asked Artie.

"Probably not," the older man replied. "But that never stops him."

Jessie heard the worried tone in his voice and stopped thinking about the 100 different ways this caper could go wrong.

 **XXX**

Jim tied Blackjack in a small stand of aspens and made his way up the slope where they'd first spied on the compound. Using outcroppings of rock and clumps of undergrowth for concealment, he worked his way down the other side until he was only yards from the gate.

Two guards strolled casually back and forth in front of what looked like the entrance to a medieval keep. The tall, stone archway was flanked by 12-foot-high sharpened logs that formed the surrounding palisade. A moat and drawbridge were missing but the iron-barred portcullis was wide enough to drive multiple wagons through abreast. Or a large herd of out-of-control cattle. In either event, it was firmly closed. Jim thought there'd been a 50/50 chance it would have been open in anticipation of receiving supply wagons but that coin hadn't landed faced up.

The guards didn't appear to have been dosed with the mind control serum. They chatted among themselves, giving only cursory glances to their surroundings. Jim watched them from behind a tree trunk. He needed to take them out quietly so as not to attract the attention of who - or what - might be lurking on the other side of the palisade, but first he needed to draw them away from the gate so they couldn't sound an alarm. Picking up a small rock, he tossed it into a nearby clump of bushes.

"What was that?" One of the guards spun and pointed his rifle in the direction of the noise.

"Relax, Albert. Probably just a varmint."

Jim waited until Albert lowered his weapon, then threw another rock. It pinged off a tree trunk a little further away and rattled to the ground.

"There it is again!"

"I'm telling you, it's just a squirrel," the other guard said, looking nonplussed.

"I'm gonna go check it out. Maybe have us a fresh squirrel for supper, eh, Hank?"

Hank muttered something about Albert always thinking with his stomach. The other guard left his post and started toward the sound where the last rock had fallen. Jim slipped silently from behind the tree and climbed atop a nearby boulder. When Albert turned his back, he sprang from a crouch and drove him to the ground, knocking the wind out of the man's lungs. He had a hand over the guard's mouth and before Albert could make a sound, knocked him out. Jim pulled the limp body deeper into the bushes, regretting the drag marks left by the man's boot heels but they couldn't be helped.

"Albert?" Hank stepped away from the gate to peer into the trees. "Albert, that squirrel get you down?"

Silence.

Jim pressed against a tree trunk, muscles tensed, and waited as Hank approached with his rifle at the ready. When he passed the tree, Jim stepped out, grabbed the rifle barrel and jerked it out of the man's hands. The man yelped in surprise. Jim threw a punch, aiming for the guard's jaw but his boot slid on a patch of loose rock, throwing him off balance. The blow landed short and the guard reeled backward. He toppled with a yell that reverberated off the surrounding trees.

So much for being quiet.

Jim dropped the rifle and dove into the fight but the damage was done. Even as he traded blows with his opponent, he could hear the rush of oncoming boots. If he moved fast enough, he could knock the man out and find a hiding place where he could buy a few precious minutes to work out another plan. He had a handful of Hank's shirt front and his fist drawn back when six armed guards appeared from where they'd been shielded by the outer curve of the palisade wall. All had their guns drawn.

"Hold it right there!" one of them commanded.

"Oh hell," Jim muttered. He'd been half serious when he teased Jessie about having a plan to get the gate open. Maybe he should have waited until she came up with something a little more elegant than his own ill-fated idea.

The man in the foreground leveled his rifle at Jim's chest.

"Let go of him!" he ordered.

Slowly, Jim released Hank. The man stumbled away.

"Keep your hands where I can see 'em."

Two more guards rushed forward. One yanked Jim's arms behind his back and bound them. The other pulled his pistol from its holster.

Jim recognized the face of the militia captain who'd ambushed him and Artie on the ridge, the one Jess had dropped with her knives. He cradled his rifle awkwardly, one arm in a sling. Dirty bandages were wrapped around his head and leg and he walked with a heavy limp.

"Mr. West," he sneered. "I should have shot you when I had the chance."

"It's good to see you again, too. Last time we met, I recall you looked like a pin cushion."

The man ignored him although several of the other guards guffawed.

"Where are your partners?" he demanded.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Let me see if I can improve your memory." He nodded at one of the guards who stepped forward and slammed a fist into Jim's gut.

"Maybe you didn't hear me – where are your partners?"

"They had a previous engagement."

"Hit him again."

The second punch drove the remaining air from his lungs. The only thing keeping him upright was the iron grip of the two men holding his arms.

"So you just came out here for an evening stroll?"

"It's good for the digestion," he wheezed. "You should try it. Doesn't look like you're missing any meals."

That earned him a third punch. Jim's knees buckled and he sagged forward. The guards jerked him roughly upright and lights flashed in front of his eyes as one of their hands dug cruelly into the bandaged bullet wound on his arm.

The captain motioned to his men. "Fan out. Last time I saw him he had two buddies with him. Be careful, one of 'em's got a quick hand with a knife."

He shoved the riffle barrel hard into Jim's chest.

"It's gonna feel real good to hand you over to Mr. LeClaire this time. Probably not gonna feel so good for you." He gestured at the guards. "Bring him." He tipped his head back and yelled upward, "Open the gate!"

A loud, grating noise sounded as the portcullis rose, exposing rusted iron phalanges that pulled from the ground like jagged teeth. Jim had little choice in the matter as two over-sized guards wrestled him through the gate into the courtyard but he fought anyway on the principal of it. By his estimate, he had less than an hour before a herd of panicked cattle stampeded through this very space. He studied the buildings that flanked the street. Jessie was right. They were little more than hastily erected wooden structures with little substance and would topple like dominoes in the face of any true force.

"How soon do you gentlemen plan on taking me to see Mr. LeClaire?" He mentally juggled his options. "I need to speak with him, the sooner, the better."

"He'll talk to you when he's good and ready." The captain signaled to another of the guards. "Tell the commander we have a guest and ask him about accommodations." He smiled wickedly. The man took off.

"A guest? Is this how you treat your guests?" Jim had a bad feeling about what might constitute accommodations.

"Shut him up."

One of the guards smashed his pistol butt into Jim's head and everything went black.

 **XXX**

Jessie nudged Diamond up next to Liberty. Before she could speak, Artie asked, "What's wrong?" The look on his face told her he had the same feeling in his gut as she did.

"Jim should have been back by now. I've got a bad feeling about this."

She looked over the sea of glossy black, red and roan cattle ahead of them, her mind in turmoil. She'd known Jim long enough to know he was tough and resourceful. He was a charming flirt when he wasn't being impossible and he was the most sensual man she'd ever met. None of that meant he was bulletproof.

"I'm going to look for him," she said decisively. "You guys keep pushing this lot along. When you get to the top of the ridge, shoot in the air over their heads and get them running. After that, they've got a straight shot through the gate into the compound." She looked at Artie. "Whatever you do, don't get in front of them. Once they start running, there's no stopping them. They'll flatten anything that gets in their way."

Before Artie could stop her, she urged Diamond into a lope and took off.

 **TBC**


	11. Chapter 11

_Author's note: This is the last regular chapter of the story. Two chapters of epilogue will wrap it up. I have a really hard time writing endings to bear with me.  
_

 _I know there weren't any bedroom scenes in WWW – at least not by today's standards – but I hope the preceding 10 chapters have set the stage to make what happens between Jim and Jessie at the end of this chapter a natural conclusion to their story. But first, there's a crazy man to capture. And Jim's in trouble. Again. As always, thanks for reading. - MW_

 **Chapter 11**

Jessie reined Diamond to stop when she spotted Blackjack tied near the clump of aspens below the ridge where they'd done their first surveillance of LeClaire's compound.

"Jim?" she called softly. "West?"

There was no answer except the cry of a hawk soaring on the late day thermals.

Jessie worked her way up the ridge, flattening to the ground as she neared the top. Below her, the gate to the compound stood wide open with no guards in sight. Smoke rose from the chimneys of several buildings within the wooden palisade walls but she could detect no human presence. The base looked suddenly and frighteningly deserted.

Then she saw him and her heart jolted with terror.

Jim was tied between two upright posts driven into the center of the courtyard. She could see him fighting the ropes but he was bound so tightly he could barely move. As she watched, a man in a dark uniform raised a lash and struck him across the back. Jessie flinched as he sagged against the restraints. He'd just regained his feet when the man drew his hand back and the lash whistled through the air again, descending almost lazily. She jumped as though it had struck her own body.

"Jessie! " Artie's voice sounded at her elbow and she jumped again.

"What are you doing here!" she snapped. "Oh, never mind, we've got problems. Look."

Artie followed her gaze and blew out a breath.

"Looks like it's time for Plan B," he said. "Why doesn't Plan A ever work?"

He pushed back from the ridgeline and held Jessie's eyes.

"Any ideas?"

"No," she said. "But we don't have much time to get him out before those cattle knock the place flat."

 **XXX**

Minutes later, she and Artie rode through the open portcullis into the courtyard. Their horses' hooves were loud in the unnatural silence and Jess could feel eyes boring into her although nothing moved. In the short time it had taken to get to the compound, ranks of uniformed men had lined the fronts of the buildings, watching them without moving, their eyes blank and vacant.

"Do you have a plan yet?" Jessie asked quietly.

"Nope," Artie said, looking straight ahead. "I was hoping you did."

"My plan hinged on Jim getting the gate open without getting caught."

"And you didn't have a backup? What were you thinking?" In spite of the seriousness of the situation, she appreciated his sense of humor. "Don't worry," he added. "I'll make something up as we go along. We do this more than I want to admit, just follow my lead."

At the whipping post, the man in the uniform raised the lash again. Jim was sagging against the ropes now. Jessie couldn't tell if he was conscious or not. She rose in her stirrups.

"No, Jess, don't – " Artie started, putting a cautionary hand out to stop her. He was too late.

Furious, she kicked Diamond forward.

"Stop it!" she screamed. The man paid her no attention. The lash began its wicked descent. She asked the horse for more speed and got it. As they neared the posts, Jessie kicked her left foot free of the stirrup and struck the man stiff-legged in the shoulder. It was like kicking a cinderblock. The impact jarred through her, nearly knocking her out of the saddle. The man dropped the whip and with surprising agility, grabbed her leg, twisting her ankle at an unnatural angle. Jessie screamed in pain and slashed the ends of the reins across his face. He howled as the leather struck his eyes. Jessie jerked her foot free and kicked up hard, clipping him under the jaw and snapping his head back. The man went over backward. Jess struggled to regain her seat as she circled Diamond, ignoring the pain searing her ankle.

Jim raised his head and she saw blood trickling from a corner of his mouth, as well as streaking one side of his face.

"Jessie! Get out of here!" he yelled. "It's you LeClaire wants, he's using me as bait."

"You're going to be flat bait if you stay here much longer!"

"Thanks for the advice but I don't have much choice, sweetheart!"

Jess kneed Diamond toward him, her hand already reaching for the knife in her boot to cut him free when a bullet plowed into the wood of the nearest post.

"Unless you want the next one in his head, I wouldn't do that," an imperious voice commanded. "Move away from Mr. West."

She reined up short and spun to face the speaker. Maurice LeClaire stood on a balcony overlooking the courtyard. He was wearing a crimson jacket trimmed with gold epaulettes, flanked by two hollow-eyed guards carrying rifles. One of the barrels was trained on Jim. The other, on her.

"Do what he says, Jess," Jim muttered. "See how much time you can buy."

Slowly, Jessie pulled her hand back from her boot and straightened in the saddle. She spun Diamond in a tight circle and backed him across the courtyard to stand near Liberty, never taking her eyes off her stepfather.

"Jessica, darling, how good of you to come. I see you're as impetuous as ever." LeClaire waved an elegant hand toward Artie. "And you brought a friend. How nice of you to come, too, Mr. Gordon. As you can see, Mr. West is in a bit of a predicament. I'm sure he'll feel much better in a moment when you join him. Then the two of you can witness the efficiency of your plan firsthand."

LeClaire laughed and the high, cold sound sent fear skittering down Jessie's spine.

"Ah, yes, he told us all about your little plan to destroy my army but it will never work. Instead, it will be the agents who are the first unfortunate casualties as my campaign begins, and then," he turned back to Jess, "you, my lovely, will be headed to the altar for once and for all."

"You're wrong!" Jessie's voice was defiant. "The gate is open. A thousand head of wild cattle are going to tear this place apart in a matter of minutes. If you surrender now we might be able to stop them before they get here."

Without turning his head, Artie spoke quietly.

"A thousand head? I thought there were only 500."

"A thousand sounds scarier."

Artie rolled his eyes.

"All he has to do is close the gate! Why won't he just close the gate!" Jessie's voice trembled. "He's not a cattleman, he has no idea what's going to happen when they get here." Lifting her face to the balcony, she called out, "You're going to lose everything, LeClaire! It's going to be torn to pieces! Surrender to us and close the gate! The Army is right behind them."

" _The Army is right behind them?_ You lie like a rug," Artie said under his breath.

"I played a lot of poker with the guys, I learned to bluff big," she returned.

LeClaire laughed maniacally.

"Surrender? Why would I surrender? I'm on the brink of greatness. I'm about to become the King of Wyoming! I have men to serve me and the richest silver mine this side of the Comstock Lode to finance my kingdom. Your feeble attempt to stop me will do nothing but cause West and Gordon's deaths."

"Get out of here!" Jim yelled. "Artie, go! Take her and run while you've still got the chance!"

"Not happening," Jessie said through gritted teeth.

"Throw down your weapons!" LeClaire screamed. "Take Gordon! Tie him with West! They can die together."

"Do what he says," Artie said, lifting his revolver from its holster. "You didn't happen to bring any of your knives with you, by chance?"

"I did." Jessie kept her eyes on the figure on the balcony. "What about you?" She pulled the Winchester rifle from its scabbard, as well as the Smith and Wesson from her holster. Several of LeClaire's minions scrambled to collect the firearms.

"I never leave home without them," Artie muttered. "Keep him talking. Ah, shit, here they come."

Two of the hollow-eyed automatons hauled Artie out of the saddle. He went with minimal resistance but, Jessie saw, not before he concealed several small, round balls in his clenched fists. The men drug him to the sidelines, leaving her sitting still as a statue on Diamond in the middle of the courtyard. Thirty yards away, Jim sagged against the ropes holding him. The man who'd been wielding the whip lay still in the dirt, either unconscious or with a broken neck.

In the distance, Jessie heard gunfire, scattered rifle shots echoing off the surrounding hills. She imagined she could feel the earth start to tremble as the cattle began their headlong charge down the slope. A faint roar, like a distant locomotive, reached her ears as hundreds of cloven hooves thundered toward them. On the balcony, LeClaire raised a set of field glasses to his eyes and looked beyond the compound walls.

"Oh, very good, my girl! You are most clever! But I'm afraid – " he paused dramatically, "now you have a choice to make. You can try to rescue Mr. West and his friend or you can come after me." He laughed maniacally. "I'm afraid you won't have time to do both." He shrugged. "It would probably be easier to rescue Mr. West. He's not going anywhere. But while you're doing that, I'll just slip away and you'll spend the rest of your life looking over your shoulder, wondering where I am and when I'm coming to get you. Because mark my words, darling, I will get you." He shrugged, an expression of mock concern on his features. "What will it be, clever girl? Bring me to justice or save the life of a man I suspect you have become quite fond of? Or that of Mr. Gordon? My men will kill him on my command."

"Jessie! Get out!" Jim yelled. "Why the hell won't you two listen to me!"

She could definitely feel the earth trembling now. The cattle must be half way down the slope toward the gate. She glanced over her shoulder and saw a cloud of dust in the near distance. She looked back up at the balcony. Bluffing big, indeed. Everything in her was screaming _run_!

"Give yourself up and let West and Gordon go," she shouted. "There's still time for you to get out of this alive but once that herd gets here, they'll reduce this place to rubble. Everything will be destroyed, including the building you're in right now and you with it."

LeClaire curled his lip.

"I'm not giving you any more chances. I tire of your games." He pointed his hand. "Seize her!" he shrieked. A phalanx of men started toward Diamond.

"Now!" Artie yelled. He wrenched free from his captors, spun around and threw what looked like a walnut at the feet of the nearest men. It exploded with a brilliant flash of fire that sent the man stumbling backward. Artie sprinted forward, snatched his pistol off the ground and flung himself back into the saddle. He kneed Liberty sideways, lobbing explosives toward LeClaire's soldiers. The men threw their arms up to shield their faces, shrieking as if in pain, although the flames hadn't touched them. Jessie reached into her vest and whipped out one of her throwing knives.

"Don't move!" she yelled at Jim, realizing how dumb it sounded even as she said it. He gave her a look that said he agreed.

With an overhand flick, she sent the knife spinning through the air and the rope binding Jim's right wrist exploded in a spray of fibers as the blade kissed it. Without pausing, she hurled a second blade and the rope around his left wrist disintegrated. She saw Jim's hand fly to his boot top and pull out his own concealed knife. He bent to slash his ankles free just as a bullet slammed into the post where his head had been seconds before. He dropped to the ground and rolled to put a post at his back, still sawing at the ropes. The sound of stampeding cattle was clear now, their wild bawling filling the air.

"Look out!" Artie yelled. "His men are firing from the balcony."

At the same time, a bullet whizzed over the tip of Diamond's ears. Jessie looked up to see the bodyguards on either side of LeClaire with their rifles at their shoulders. She cued the horse and he shot backward just as another volley split the air where his head had been. Artie squeezed off a shot that dropped one of the men. He toppled over the railing. Artie's second shot shattered the window behind LeClaire. The mining baron ducked behind the remaining guard who tracked Jessie with his rifle, unable to get a bead on the moving horse as she reined left, then right. Artie fired again and the second rifleman crumpled. LeClaire rose but without a weapon, could only scream curses.

"Artie! Find us a way out of here!" Jessie screamed. "I'll get Jim and follow you!"

She could hear the panicked bellowing of the cattle and knew without looking they were nearly through the gate. Will and Luke would be driving them hard, with no idea what was happening ahead of them. She spurred Diamond toward the whipping post, alternating prayers and swearwords. Parallel to her, Artie tossed random explosives, the flames and smoke obscuring the soldiers' attempts to advance on them. The men continued to cringe and moan eerily with each explosion.

Jessie reined the buckskin to a sliding stop as Jim cut through the final rope and lurched to his feet. He was hatless, caked in sweat and dust, his clothes in tatters and blood tricking down his face. She thought he'd never looked better.

Without speaking, she extended her arm and he grabbed her wrist, swinging up behind her as she booted Diamond into a gallop. Jim wrapped his hands around her waist as the horse collected his powerful haunches and drove forward, the destructive force of the stampede only seconds behind them.

They flew along the main street a length behind Artie and Liberty. Jess could feel the ground shaking and hear the cattle's hooves pounding like a timpani.

"This way!" Artie yelled as they drew even with him. Jessie reined Diamond in a hard left after Liberty and they barreled down a narrow alley between the smithy and a storehouse. The sound of splintering wood filled her ears. She glanced over her shoulder and saw the compound's un-reinforced wooden buildings disintegrate under the force of the cattle's frenzied rush. Porches collapsed as supports tore free, windows shattered and walls blew out as the beasts swept along, running 20-head abreast.

The riders pelted along the narrow passageway, boots only inches from the walls on either side, knowing any hesitation at this point would cost them their lives. Jessie had a fraction of a second to react when she saw Liberty collect himself and soar over the buckboard wagon blocking the far end of the alley.

"Hang on!" she yelled and felt Jim's arms tighten even more. Taking a jump at this reckless speed was insane. Doing it with someone riding double without the benefit of stirrups was suicide. She centered herself as she felt Diamond gather under her, then they were airborne, caught in that glorious moment of weightlessness before the horse's front hooves slammed into the packed dirt. Jim lost his seat and slid wildly, dragging her with him.

With a monumental effort, Jessie hauled herself upright, muscles screaming as she fought to stay in the saddle. Without looking, she reached behind her, grabbing blindly. Her fingers connected with fabric – damnit, Jim's pants were too tight to provide any real purchase. She scrabbled desperately to stop his fall, finally catching hold of his belt, and yanked upward with all her strength against relentless gravity. She felt him pull himself up and settle behind her again. Diamond didn't slow, racing after Artie until their terrifying flight carried them atop a rise overlooking the compound. The militia men's tents were at their backs.

Jessie was shaking, unable to catch her breath and heart beating erratically. Jim's hands closed over hers on the reins and he pulled Diamond to a full halt next to Liberty. They sat, humans and animals breathing hard, watching the cataclysmic force of the stampede unleash itself below. The herd swept like a tidal wave, destroying everything in its path. The cattle plowed through the smithy, scattering hot coals that ignited what was left of flattened wooden walls. The flames spread through the debris and soon an inferno was racing toward the few buildings that were still standing. A series of explosions marked the demise of what Jessie thought had been the laboratory, the stench of chemical fumes wafting over them briefly before vanishing on the breeze.

As flames licked up the front pillars of LeClaire's headquarters, they saw him pacing the balcony like a deposed monarch. Cattle continued to pour past him, wave after wave of hooves and horns destroying everything in their path. A huge long-horn steer snagged his horns in one of the support pillars and thrashed to get free, tearing the pillar loose in the process. Bereft of its support, the balcony tilted crazily.

"He could still get out of the building," Jessie said. "Why doesn't he try to get out!"

As they watched, LeClaire climbed onto the balcony railing and with a final accession to the dramatic, swan dived into the seething mass below. His bright red coat was swallowed amidst the chaos of cattle and flames and the building crumbled after him. Jessie flinched but was unable to turn away. She felt no remorse watching her stepfather commit suicide using a method she'd provided. It was a fitting end to his madness. No trace of the red coat was visible. The cattle continued to thunder past, the herd slowing and spreading out now as no buildings were left to funnel them tightly.

"It's over," Jessie said. "You can let go now."

"I could," Jim agreed. He didn't take his arms from her waist.

She twisted in the saddle.

"What do - " she started to protest, then his mouth closed over hers. He tasted like dust and smelled of sweat and blood and she couldn't get enough of him.

"Thank you for saving me back there," he said several minutes later.

Jessie didn't say anything. She leaned into him and kissed him again, losing herself in the heat of his mouth and the strength of his hands as the fading chaos of the stampede swirled below them.

"It's hard to show my true appreciation on horseback," he whispered.

Artie cleared his throat and she jumped, reluctantly turning to face the other agent. Artie chuckled.

"When you two are done, I'd like to confirm that body we saw fly off the balcony was really LeClaire."

"Don't wait for us." Jim brushed his lips across the back of Jessie's neck. She squirmed.

"Stop that." She tried pulling away, which didn't work, since there was nowhere she could go.

"Stop what?" He kissed the back of her ear, catching it between his teeth.

"That!"

"Or I'll just go ahead and you two can catch up when it's convenient." Artie turned Liberty back down the hill. The last of the herd had vanished, leaving a wasteland of dust and flame in their wake.

Jessie gathered Diamond's reins and squeezing him with her legs, followed. Jim chuckled in her ear. His hands were again around her waist in a grip that had nothing to do with keeping his balance.

"You can't run away from me, sweetheart, we're riding the same horse."

Jessie wasn't about to let him know she wasn't trying to get away. Her mind was a tangle of emotion and physical sensation but one thing was clear – she couldn't have told him to stop if she'd wanted to. His warm presence behind her represented the final triumph of right over wrong. It had been bloody and dangerous and had eventually taken a human life but it was behind her now. She had no idea what might happen next but she could finally quit looking over her shoulder for Maurice LeClaire.

Occasional whoops and hollers from the distance indicated the Kincaids had found a back gate to the compound and were driving the cattle through it to their freedom.

Ahead of them, Artie dismounted and studied what looked like a bloodied pile of rags on the ground. Jim slid off Diamond's back, waiting while Jessie kicked her boots out of the stirrups and leaped down. She landed on both feet, crying out in pain. Jim caught her before she fell.

"What's wrong?"

"My ankle. I wrenched it when I kicked that guard."

"How bad is it?"

Jessie flexed her foot. Pain shot through the joint.

"I think it's just sprained." She teetered. Jim steadied her.

Artie walked back to them, leading Liberty. His face was grim.

"Is he . . . gone . . . for sure?" Jessie held her breath.

"Yeah." Artie made a face. "He was pretty torn up but I made a positive ID."

"We'll take your word for it," Jim said.

"What happened to you?" Artie looked at Jess, who stood one-legged, balanced between Jim and Diamond.

"She got hurt rescuing me." Jim sounded smug. "I haven't decided how to thank her."

"Give me a leg up and let's go get your horse," Jessie said, "then I can get you off of mine."

Jim took her by the waist and boosted her into Diamond's saddle.

"Would you rather I rode with Artie?" His hand rested on her thigh.

"No," she said, hoping he couldn't hear her heart pounding. "I wouldn't." She put her hand down. He caught her wrist and swung up behind her.

"Admit it, Jessie," he said softly as they left the compound, "you can't get enough of me."

Unwilling to trust her voice, she didn't reply. Jim squeezed her waist lightly.

"That's what I thought," he said.

Pounding hoofbeats heralded the arrival of Will and Luke. They drew up in a flurry of ecstatic whooping, vindication clear on faces smudged with dirt and smoke.

"It's over, isn't it?" Will asked, taking in the destruction.

"Yeah," Artie answered. "It's over. LeClaire committed suicide. I'm guessing he'd been mentally unstable for years. He took his own life, rather than surrender."

"Are the cattle clear of the compound?" Jim asked.

"Yeah, we pushed them toward the hills. They're scattered to the four winds by now. If anyone wants to try rounding them up, they're welcome to it." Will reined his gray up next to Diamond. "But I'm handing in my resignation with this outfit. Ya'll are a little too intense for me."

Jessie saw his gaze travel to Jim's hands on her waist and linger there. When Will met her eyes, she didn't look away. With a wry grin on his face, he tipped his hat and nodded. Jessie felt the tension drain out of her. The last thing she needed after all of this was a brawl between two men who were probably capable of killing each other. And damned if she was going to let either of them treat her like she was the spoils of war, even though Jim's proprietary touch had her body humming with possibilities. With LeClaire gone, she could no longer fall back on that excuse for not allowing her mind to wander. And she knew exactly where it was going.

 **XXX**

They found Blackjack waiting impatiently where Jim had tied him and the adrenaline rush of the day's adventure carried all of them back to the Wanderer in high spirits.

Copious amounts of hot water, soap, clean clothes and medical attention were warranted and liberal application of whisky ensured spirits remained high. Jessie was laying on the couch, her left foot elevated on several pillows and an ice pack on her ankle, which sported a rainbow of hues from violet to indigo. The Kincaid brothers were sipping whisky and studying the interior of the varnish car with interest while Jim frowned over a preliminary report. Artie perched on a corner of the couch.

"As it turns out, a side effect of the mind control drug was a pathological fear of fire," Artie said. "That's why I could hold off LeClaire's men with just a few small incendiaries. And . . .," he paused dramatically, smiling, "I snagged a sample of that serum the night we rescued Jessie from his house. The effects wear off if it's not administered regularly. So the good news is, all the men LeClaire pressed into his militia will be able to return to their homes and families in a matter of days, once it drains out of their systems. Until then, the Coyote Falls sheriff and his men are making sure they're fed and cared for. That should be a fairly simple process, since they do whatever they're told."

"The President is sending a legal team to reinstate the deeds of all the landowners LeClaire ran off of their property," Artie continued. "He's got people working to bring them back to their homesteads if they want to come back."

Jessie closed her eyes, letting the men's voices drift around her. It was over. LeClaire was gone, the specter of him banished from her life for good. Jim and Artie assured her neither she, Will or Luke would be prosecuted in any way. Jim said the report he filed with Washington would mention their names as providing assistance to the U.S. government and nothing more. The McAllister land would be reinstated in her name. She would be the sole owner of the ranch her parents had homesteaded.

Jim's voice drifted into her subconscious.

"Take Will and Luke into town and show them a good time." His voice was pitched low but Jessie could make out his words.

"How much of a good time?" Artie chuckled.

"A _very_ good time. For a _very_ long time."

Jessie's eyes shot open. The two men were standing by the fireplace, heads together. Oh this can't be good, she thought. Artie gave Jim a knowing smile. He turned to face the others and raised his whisky glass.

"Gentlemen –" he paused and grinned at Jessie, "- and lady – I propose an evening on the town in celebration of our success in saving the territory. Dinner and dancing at the finest establishments Coyote Falls has to offer and I've no doubt we can find some female companionship for you two." He nodded toward the Kincaids, then paused and added, "And I believe we can write this off as a business expense, so it's on President Grant's tab."

Luke rubbed his stomach.

"I could go for that," he said and Will nodded in agreement.

"What about you two?" Artie asked pointedly, looking at Jim and Jessie.

"I've had enough excitement for one day," Jim muttered, touching his temple where he'd been pistol whipped. "Go ahead, Jess, if you want to go with them."

"I can't even walk, let alone dance." She lifted the ice pack, looked at her ankle and grimaced. "I'm staying right here."

Ten minutes later, Jessie watched as Artie and the Kincaids disappeared, their laughter fading into the night as they headed for town. Jim closed the door and locked it behind them. He flexed his shoulders, as if trying to loosen the fabric of his shirt.

"Are you all right?" she asked. "Your back, I mean – you took a lashing before we got there."

"I've had worse. Besides, the fabric of that jacket has metallic threads sewn across the back. Not much padding but the lash couldn't cut through them, either. It doesn't hurt. Much."

He lifted the ice pack.

"How's your ankle?"

She wiggled her toes.

"Purple. It only hurts if I move it."

"I'll be right back." Jim vanished down the hallway and reappeared a few seconds later with the small tin of green salve she'd applied to his gunshot wound. He sat on the arm of the sofa and lifted the ice pack. His fingers were warm against the coolness of her skin as he smoothed the salve gently onto her bruised, swollen ankle. The pain vanished almost instantly, replaced with a warm numbness.

"That feels great," she said in surprise. "Actually it doesn't feel at all, which feels great. Thank you."

He gave her a slow smile.

"That reminds me, I'm not done thanking you."

"You thanked me earlier. How many different ways can you say it?"

The words hung on the air.

"I can think of a few." His voice was husky.

Jessie reached out and took the tin of salve.

"Do you want me to put any of this on your back?" Her heart was pounding now, her breath coming fast. She knew where this was going, had known it since his kisses that afternoon left a promise hanging heavy and ripe between them. Part of her wanted to throw herself into his arms and let him do as he pleased while another part urged caution. She had a feeling which one was going to win.

"Sweetheart, when you dig your nails into my back tonight, I want to be able to feel them."

Her eyes went wide. Without speaking, she reached up and touched his face, her fingers light on the split skin at the edge of his mouth and the bloodied bruise on his temple. He caught her hand, brushed his lips over her fingers, then kissed her palm and her wrist. Jessie's heart beat like a trip hammer.

Jim stood and slid one arm around her waist and another under her thighs. He swept her off the couch and set her onto the edge of the billiards table. Before she could react, he rested a hand on each knee and spread her legs, stepping between them to close his mouth over hers.

Jessie's mind reeled. He kissed like he lived, with a boldness that wouldn't take no for an answer. The heat of him blurred her mind, leaving her aware only of his hands caressing the outside of her thighs. She wrapped her legs around him, unsure if she were pulling him closer or holding him in place to slow the momentum of the moment.

"If you were a proper lady," he murmured, lips grazing her neck, "you'd be wearing a skirt and this would be a lot easier."

"If I were a proper lady, we wouldn't be doing this," she returned, letting her mouth brush the hollow of his throat. He tangled his fingers in her hair and pulled her head back until she met his eyes.

"Do you want me to stop?"

God, no, she didn't want him to stop. Her affirmation was swift. She ran her hands up his body, gripped each side of his open shirt collar and ripped. Buttons flew.

"Who's going to sew those back on, McCallister?"

"Not my problem, West." She felt his heart pounding under her fingertips and pressed her lips to his neck. She worked her way from jawline to collarbone with a mixture of delicate kisses and bites, raking her teeth along his skin as his hands tightened on her shoulders. He found her mouth again, caught her lower lip between his teeth and held firm when she pulled back. When she softened, yielding, he released her.

He shrugged out of the shirt and without speaking, gathered her in his arms and carried her to his quarters, kicking the door closed behind them.

He lay her on the bed and before she had a chance to move, covered her with his body, his mouth taking hers, the kisses deep and hard. When he drew back, she saw the blue flame of his eyes burning with a heat that threatened to incinerate them both. In a moment reminiscent of their first meeting, he pinned her hands above her head, holding her body still with his. She shifted, writhing deliberately against him and heard him groan.

"If I turn your hands loose, can I trust you?" he asked. It was less question than order.

"Trust me to do what?" Her voice was silk as she trembled under him.

"Or I could just tie you up."

"I'd like to see you try."

She scissored her legs around his torso and gathering every ounce of strength she had, rolled him onto his back. He didn't resist. An easy smile played over his face as he cradled her hips, drawing her down against him, his need undeniable.

"Turn about is fair play," he said softly. He tugged her shirt out of her trousers, ripped it open and jerked it down over her shoulders. She shrieked, both in surprise and at the rush of sensation as he slid his hands up her body to stroke her breasts. His thumbs teased her nipples through the thin linen camisole, leaving her shuddering with pleasure.

He pulled her down and rolled her onto her back, his hands moving over her with rough sensuality, his touch light enough to arouse, rough enough to inflame. The simmering attraction of the last three days erupted into hard desire.

Tangled in the heat and power of his embrace, the intensity of Jessie's response unnerved her and her mind swirled, memories briefly overlapping reality. Her loving with Daniel had been ultimately satisfying but this was different. She and Jim weren't in love and she knew it. Their attraction was powerful but nothing about their joining was destined for wedding bells. Their lives would follow separate trails after this night, his in service to his country and hers in pursuit of her parents' legacy. They would not cross paths again. That knowledge was like a key turning in a lock and desire rose through her like flame until she was molten in his hands.

He owned her, undressing her slowly, the heat of his mouth on her skin, stroking, teasing until she glowed from his touch. Her focus extended no further than the exquisite pleasure of his body against hers. She was powerless, the caress of his fingers as they slid between her thighs was terrifyingly intimate, the arousal so intense it was almost unbearable.

She could see the pulse pounding in his throat and pressed her lips against it, drawing in his scent. His heart beat against hers, hard muscle on soft skin. Her hands were light as she explored his body in turn and his groan of pleasure at her touch pushed her need higher and hotter.

She wrapped her legs around him and surrendered, welcoming his body into hers. Their momentum grew slowly as she matched his demand, each stroke driving harder and deeper than the one before. Her nails dug into his back and she felt him wince, whisper her name as either expletive or sacrament, then pull her head back to expose her throat to his mouth.

He brought her to the edge of the abyss, her body trembling, and held her there until she sobbed his name, begging for release. His lips brushed hers in a whisper as he took her over the edge. The climax consumed her, an onslaught that pounded through her in relentless waves, threatening oblivion. She felt him groan against her neck, then shudder as he emptied himself into her.

The concept of time vanished. Tremors of their loving sparked through her body as they lay, tangled, afterward. Jessie felt heat shimmering off her skin, her body warm and loose in his arms. Jim rolled onto an elbow and tipped her face up. He kissed her bruised lips gently.

"How late are Artie and the boys staying out?" she whispered.

"I told him not to hurry back. Why?"

She pressed a hand against his chest.

"Because I haven't had enough of you." The words twined around them in the darkness.

He pulled her closer, flattened his palm on the smooth, bare skin of her belly.

"Good. I haven't had enough of you, either."

 **END PART 1**

 **TBC**


	12. Chapter 12

**Part 2**

 **Epilogue I**

 **Nine months later, May 1873**

 **Wyoming Territory**

The buckskin gelding made his way down the slope, placing each hoof carefully, as if the passenger he carried was made of glass. While that was not the case, the horse recognized neither was she the reckless girl who'd once ridden him full-tilt across the dark plains while flames painted the sky behind them.

"Jessie! What are you doing out here!" The man's voice was a mix of exasperation and pride.

"I brought you and Luke some dinner so you didn't have to leave your precious cows," Jessie Kincaid teased. She kicked out of the stirrups and dropped heavily to the ground. She started to hoist the bag tied around the saddle horn but hands closed over hers.

"I'll get that. Shouldn't you be laying down or something?" Will Kincaid ran his fingers through sweaty hair, then resettled his Stetson. "I would have come back to the house to fetch dinner. Besides, I wanted to check on you anyway." He squeezed her arm affectionately.

"You can check on me all you want, it's not going to make this baby come any faster." She wrapped an arm around Will's waist and returned Luke's greeting wave. The younger man was wrestling a post into place 30 yards away. A pile of posts and coils of barbed wire marked the perimeter of the pasture fence in progress. "Besides, it's a lovely day and Diamond wanted to stretch his legs."

In front of them, 50 head of Black Angus cows, the first generation to produce offspring on American soil, grazed on spring grass while their calves frolicked amidst the dandelions. The sun glinted off their sleek black hides and overhead, the sky was a clear cerulean blue that seemed to stretch forever.

"Forty-seven live calves, lost two, two sets of twins, three cows yet to go," Will said proudly. "It's a good start for the Rocking K."

Jessie admired the herd. They were fine animals, gleaned from last fall's great stampede and gathered through nearly a month of hard riding, roping and driving in the hill country. A lot had happened during that month and not all of it had to do with selectively sorting out the best of the Angus cows before the whole lot reverted to the wild.

Now the animals bore the Rocking K's brand, as lawful and legal as you please. No questions asked. In the chaotic days that followed the liberation of the soldiers from the remains of her stepfather's compound, there'd been a lot of people asking a lot of questions but no one had seen anything peculiar about a couple of native sons and a daughter re-establishing their parents' ranches on land restored to them by the government. Luke had married a local girl and moved into the adjoining Kincaid farm while Jessie and Will set up housekeeping in the McCallister homestead.

"Have you ever seen anything so beautiful?" she said, gazing at the herd with a contented sigh. This was what she had always wanted - a life filled with land and cattle and someone to share it with.

"Yes."

Will rested his hand on the swell of her belly and Jess looked up, overpowered as usual by the depth emotion in his dark brown eyes. He was the man she'd been meant to spend her life with. It had just taken them both awhile to realize it. Their love had blossomed in the aftermath of everything that happened last fall, weaving them together in a shared dream of life on the frontier, ranching and raising a family.

The family part had started sooner than either of them anticipated and while her pregnancy was a surprise, she knew in her heart it wasn't totally unexpected. She'd looked Will in the eye and told him without apology the child was Jim West's. Will had accepted it with the patient pragmatism that marked his approach to life. There'd been little either of them could do about it anyway and they'd been married in October.

"This baby is ours, Jess," he said, his eyes still on hers. The tone of his voice did not invite argument and she squeezed his hand. "I know I ain't the man who put it there but that don't matter none. We're gonna be this little one's ma and pa and that's all that matters. He's gonna be the first of half a dozen and he'll have my name like all of 'em will."

"Half a dozen?" She turned a vexed smile on him.

"Give or take a few," Will grinned. "Now go on back to the house. Tildy Lewis is coming over this evening to stay with you and I'll feel a lot better when she gets there. I've delivered a lot of calves but," he paled slightly, "having babies is women's business. Tildy's been mid-wifing for a long time. I reckon she knows what she's doing."

"It's a good thing one of us will." Jessie reached up and brushed his cheek. He helped her awkwardly onto Diamond's saddle and she rode back to the whitewashed ranch house, thinking how blessed she was. She was 23 years old and there'd been three incredible men in her life. She'd loved two of them and the third, well, he would always have a place in her heart. She caressed her belly, felt the life there turn under her fingers. No. She'd never forget him.

Three days later, with the indignant squalls of a newborn ringing off the rafters and the quiet murmur of female voices from the bedroom, Will took the family Bible from its shelf. Seated at the dining room table, he dipped the pen nib in ink, blotted it and carefully wrote: _Samuel James_. . . he paused, then in his firm, clear hand, continued . . . _Kincaid, born May 23, 1873, son of William Samuel and Jessica Emilie McCallister Kincaid, Rocking K Ranch, Coyote Falls, Wyoming._

It would be four generations before a daughter was born into the Kincaid family.

 **2006**

 **Iowa**

Nichole "Nicky" Kincaid's parents had never been into genealogy. They never packed her into the family minivan to make pilgrimages to the sacred ancestral sites like so many of her friends' families did. They didn't even bother with family reunions beyond the usual holiday get-togethers at Grandpa and Grandma Kincaid's house.

The modern day Kincaid clan was firmly rooted in the here and now of the rolling farmland of eastern Iowa. Nicky grew up playing saxophone in the marching band, showing cattle at the state fair and hunting for mushrooms and arrowheads in the river bottoms in the spring. She loved the outdoors and spent summers riding horses and camping with her cousins. In the winters, they rode snowmobiles and went ice fishing. Family vacations were trips to Mt. Rushmore or Six Flags and she certainly didn't have any ancestral connections there.

Her parents never gave more than passing mention to the family tree and as a result, Nicky had been raised with only a cursory knowledge of Kincaid history. She knew she was descended from a ranching family who homesteaded in Wyoming before it was even a state and that was as far as it went. That in itself was kind of cool and she wished she knew more but her parents never wanted to talk about it. There were always calves to lead break before the fair or hay to bale or a hundred other demands that kept them busy and left little time to look backward.

The closest any of them ever came to venturing into the past was at Thanksgiving or Christmas when the clan gathered at Grandma and Grandpa Kincaid's house and, since she'd become a teenager, someone inevitably pointed out how much she looked like her great-great-great-great-grandmother, Jessica Emilie McCallister Kincaid, in an old photo.

The sepia toned picture was framed in dark wood and hung in Grandma Evelyn's lace-curtained parlor. Nicky had grown up feeling oddly drawn to it and wishing she knew more about the woman and man in it but no one else seemed interested. There were always other priorities, what with the big family meal to look forward to and touch football in the backyard if the weather was fine, not to mention presents to unwrap and Grandma Evelyn's tray of Christmas cookies to sample. But even with all of that, Nicky always found time to sneak off into the parlor and look at the picture.

Unlike so many photos of the time that showed men and women in stiff, grim-faced poses, this couple were smiling as if sharing a secret joke. The woman was wearing britches tucked into tall boots and a white shirt with open lacings at the neck. Her hair curled over her shoulder and the smile teasing her lips was reflected in her eyes. She was holding a sturdy looking baby. Nicky knew it was her great-great-great-grandfather, Samuel Kincaid. The man next to her was tall and broad shouldered, with rugged, dark good looks and a smile that mirrored his wife's.

When she was little – not grown up like she was now, at 14 - Nicky used to make up stories about the people in that picture. She knew they were her great-great-great-great-grandparents but that was all. They were generations removed from her present day reality and try as she might, she could never get her non-historically-minded family to understand the odd connection she felt to them, especially to the woman.

Her eyes were jade green. That didn't show in the picture, of course, but Nicky knew it because her grandfather told her they were. She wasn't sure how he knew, given that the picture had been taken more than a hundred years ago and Grandpa Charlie couldn't possibly have ever met the woman in real life, but she believed him because it was so typical of him to know these odd bits of family trivia.

Jade green, like so many of her cousins' eyes. Jade green, like Grandpa Charlie's own eyes, undimmed by the years. McCallister green, they called it, the color carrying down through the generations who traced their line back to Jessica and William. Descendants of the McCallister-Kincaid union had one of two colors of iris – jade green or dark brown.

Except her.

Nicky Kincaid's eyes were a deep aquamarine blue that no one else in her family shared. Her cousin Justin used to torment her that her parents had brought the wrong baby home from the hospital and she wasn't even a Kincaid at all. That teasing stopped a few years ago when she'd finally had enough and punched him. He'd gone off howling with a bloody nose and Nicky had gotten grounded for two weeks but privately she thought it had been worth it.

She was enjoying a few moments alone with the picture after Thanksgiving dinner when Grandpa Charlie stepped into the parlor.

"Thought I'd find you here." He chuckled as if laughing at a private joke while she studied the photo, enjoying the mystery of it and wondering if anyone would _ever_ tell her anything more about the people in it.

"You've got his eyes," Grandpa said, as if reading her mind. "They skipped my generation and your daddy's, too. I thought maybe the gene was gone but you've got it, sweetheart. My father had those eyes and so did his father." He chuckled again and shook his head. "William Kincaid was no more the father of Jessie's first son than the man in the moon."

"What do you mean?" Nicky's concentration wavered between the intrigue of the photo and the cheerful chaos coming from the kitchen. The pies were being cut and she thought she should go get in line before her cousins hogged the biggest pieces.

Charlie Kincaid rubbed a hand across his face and studied his granddaughter.

"I reckon you're old enough to hear the story, Nicky. Your mama and daddy are fine people but they don't see any point in dwelling on the past. And it probably don't matter, one way or the other, but I'm not gonna live forever and you ought to know where you come from."

He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and they stood, looking at the photo while the sound of china clinking and the scent of coffee drifted from the kitchen.

"Your great-great-great-great-grandmother and her husband loved each other very much," Grandpa said.

Nicky noticed he said "her husband" not "your great-great-great-great-grandfather." She held her breath. Was she finally going to find out something about these people?

Grandpa went on.

"They founded the Rocking K Cattle Company and raised a family in Wyoming – four fine sons. That whole bunch of yahoos out there -" he waved an affectionate hand at the boisterous family swelling the house, " – is descended from those four boys. But I doubt your mama and daddy ever told you what happened before Jessica and William were married."

Nicky shook her head in silent agreement. No, her parents had never said anything about it. Why would they? Leave the past in the past, her father always said, life is meant to be lived going forward.

She'd never given any thought to the _before_ when she looked at the picture, just the _now_. People met and fell in love and got married. What else was there? She was old enough to understand what men and women did and how babies were made. She knew that back when her great-great-great-great-grandmother and grandfather started the Kincaid clan, women did _not_ do that kind of thing with anyone else but their husband.

"How do you know what happened?" she asked a little suspiciously. Grandpa was famous for his tall tales. Maybe this was just another one.

Grandpa Charlie looked at the picture and a smile spread across his weathered face.

"Oh, the story got handed down through the generations. I'm afraid it stopped with your parents. Your daddy's heard it but he just doesn't have a big enough romantic streak to think it's important." He heaved an exaggerated sigh at his son's character flaw and Nicky laughed.

"Tell me!" She was intrigued now, bouncing on the balls of her feet. She'd wondered about that picture for ever so long but no one else had shown the slightest interest in it beyond its value as a family heirloom or to remark on her resemblance to Jessie McCallister Kincaid. Even if the story was just another of Grandpa Charlie's tall tales, well, it could fuel more than one daydream while she sat in math class. There was nothing wrong with _her_ romantic streak.

"In the summer of 1872, a gang of outlaws was stealing silver from a mining company in the Wyoming Territory. Wyoming wasn't a state back then like it is now and there were some pretty rough characters who called it home. President Grant sent two Secret Service agents to catch the thieves. The Secret Service handled all kinds of things when it came to matters of national security and the treasury," he added, seeing Nicky's confusion.

"The agents caught up with the gang in a little town called Cotter's Mill. There were three of them, William and Luke Kincaid and Jessie McCallister." He paused to let the impact of his words sink in. Nicky stared at him.

"They were outlaws?" she blurted, looking at the smiling woman and the handsome man in the photograph. They looked quite law abiding, especially the baby.

"Yepper, they were lawbreakers of the highest degree." At her shocked look, Grandpa Charlie held up a finger. "Remember, Nick, there are two sides to every story."

Her great-great-great-great-grandparents had been outlaws in the wild west? Nicky wanted to hear _that_ side of the story.

"The two Secret Service agents were named James West and Artemus Gordon. They captured the gang, threw the Kincaid brothers in jail and took Jessie into their custody."

"Why didn't they throw her into jail, too?"

"Well, it was clear she was the ring leader so they wanted to question her separately." Grandpa paused and winked. "And as the story goes, she was very pretty and caught West's eye, although they didn't get on so well at first. She admitted to everything – stealing the silver, setting fire to the buildings where it was stored, even minting coins and giving them back to ranchers who lived around the area. Counterfeiting was a federal offense – she was in serious trouble."

"Then what happened?" Nicky was breathless.

"As it turned out, Jessie's stepfather was an insane, evil man who wanted to rule Wyoming like his own country. He used illegal means to take over ranchers' land so he could get the silver that lay underneath and he tried to get Jessie married off in exchange for mineral rights to a huge silver vein in a place called the Trouble River valley. She and the Kincaid brothers were stealing the silver back and giving it to the ranchers so they could hire lawyers and keep their land – the newspapers of the day called them the Robin Hood Gang. Her stepfather had formed his own army and was ready to launch a military takeover of the territory."

"That's crazy!" Nicky said. "Nobody just _does_ that in America."

"Her stepfather did exactly that. Or he tried to. Jessie and the Kincaids helped West and Gordon stop him. Her stepfather killed himself before they could arrest him and the threat to national security was never made public. Jessie and the Kincaid boys were released and no charges were filed against them."

"What happened after that?" She'd never in her wildest dreams imagined her four-times-over grandparents were outlaws who'd helped the Secret Service stop a crazy man from starting another civil war. How could her parents _not_ have told her this?

"When it was all over, Jessie and West. . ." Grandpa Charlie got a little red in the face and cleared his throat. "Well, James West was the father of Jessie's first son, even though she was married to Will Kincaid when the baby arrived."

Nicky stared at her grandpa, proud he thought she was grown up enough to hear the story but confused at the same time.

"You mean . . . they . . . um . . .?" She couldn't finish the sentence.

"They hooked up. I think that's what you young people call it these days."

Nicky's eyes flew open wide with indignation.

"But Jessie wasn't that kind of . . . I mean . . . she wasn't a . . ." She couldn't find the right word.

Grandpa Charlie smiled patiently.

"No, she wasn't a _loose woman_. But she and West went through a lot together in the process of stopping her stepfather. Their . . . um . . . mutual attraction . . . meant one thing led to another and . . ." He shrugged. "Nobody talked about that sort of thing in those days, especially if a child was conceived out of wedlock. Nowadays, no one acts like it's a big deal if a woman has a baby without marrying the father but back then, it would have been a huge scandal and her reputation would have been ruined."

"So my great-great-great-grandpa wasn't really William Kincaid's son?"

"Nope. Jessie knew it and Will knew it, too. But West was long gone before anyone knew there was going to be a baby. Will loved her and he married her and gave the baby his name. Says a lot about a man who loves a woman enough to take another man's child as his own. They had three more sons after Samuel and they're true Kincaids. But you and me, Nick?" He squeezed her shoulders. "We got the Kincaid name and we're Jessie's descendants but we're not William's blood. You've got the eyes to prove it. Family legend has it Jessie's first son had his daddy's bluegreen eyes. And those eyes have shown up in our family off and on for decades. You're the first girl in four generations from Samuel's line. You deserve to know the story."

Before she could say anything, Nicky's mother stuck her head in the room. She let out a huff when she saw them standing in front of the photo.

"Charlie, you're not filling her head with that old folk tale, are you?" she chided gently. "She's too young to hear that. Besides, it happened eons ago. It doesn't matter now."

Charlie Kincaid winked at his granddaughter.

"It's a love story, Maggie," he said to his daughter-in-law. "Nicky's old enough to hear a love story. Let's go get some pumpkin pie, shall we?"

Nicky looked around at her aunts and uncles and cousins while she ate her pie. Some of their eyes were McCallister green. Others were Kincaid brown. Except hers. She had bluegreen eyes. _His eyes._ Who was he?

Her mother was right. That had all happened a long time ago.

Did it really matter?

 **XXX**

The years passed. Nicky graduated from college with a degree in archaeology. As it turned out, she very much liked living in the past. She went to grad school, earned her master's and landed a job with the Office of the State Archaeologist in Iowa City, Iowa.

Every time she asked her parents about what happened in Wyoming in 1872, they changed the subject. When Grandpa Charlie died peacefully in his sleep at age 94, he took the story with him. The Kincaid clan's frustrating tendency to charge full speed ahead into the future with little regard for the past had never been more evident.

"You know how your grandpa liked to tell stories," her father said when he caught her staring at the photo when the family gathered at her grandparents' house after the funeral. "He loved to tease. You know you couldn't believe half of what he said." They stood in silence for a minute, then he added, "Come on, let's go have something to eat."

Nicky turned and followed him back to the kitchen where coffee was being poured and neighbors were dropping in with casseroles and plates of cookies.

But what if that story was the half she _could_ believe?

 **Present day**

 **Laramie, Wyoming**

This was going to be the oddest job interview she'd ever had.

Not that Nick Kincaid been to a lot of job interviews in her 26 years but so far, this was one for the record books. She could recite the final email she'd received from her prospective employer by heart and it had played in her head like a mantra as she drove from Iowa to Wyoming.

"Dear Miss Kincaid, Thank you for your prompt response and your willingness to travel for an interview. Please meet me at the Crooked Arrow Saloon, 2437 Jefferson Street, Coyote Falls, Wyoming, at 7 p.m. Friday, May 12. I'll be happy to go into more detail about the job then. Formal interview attire discouraged. Come dressed to work in the field. Looking forward to meeting you at last." The letter, on official university letterhead, was signed Dr. A. Gordon, Ph.D., Department of Archaeology and Anthropology, University of Wyoming.

No. Odd didn't even start to cover it but Nick found herself relishing the challenge of applying for the job and the two-day drive to get to Wyoming for the interview. It appealed to her sense of adventure even if the final line of the email sounded more like something a person seeking a long-lost friend or relative might say.

 _"Looking forward to meeting you at last."_

Nick had no idea who Dr. A. Gordon, Ph.D., was. As far as she knew, the man was certainly not a long-lost friend or relative of hers. She remembered her grandfather's story about the Secret Service agents but the name had to be a coincidence. Her attempts to research Dr. A Gordon, Ph.D., through the University website failed. "Photo unavailable" and a generic listing that detailed his many awards and achievements in the field of 19th century western American anthropology were all she could find. In an age where the tendency was to make one's life an open book online, Dr. Gordon's social media presence was frustratingly minimal as welll. His Facebook page showed only photos of dig sites and artifacts. Nick personally thought were more intriguing than a bunch of selfies, anyway.

In spite of brief electronic communication to line up the interview, she wasn't clear about what the job entailed. The description was vague: _"Assistant needed, University of Wyoming Department of Archaeology summer excavation of trading post and Indian settlement in Laurel County, with possibility of full time departmental position pending post-dig evaluation."_

All she knew for sure was the dig site was near the location of what had once been the Rocking K, the ranch founded by her ancestors and thrived for several generations before the winds of fate blew the Kincaid clan to their present stronghold in the Midwest.

Nick wasn't sure if that fell into the category of _odd_ or _coincidence_ or both _._ At this point, she was almost willing to believe the interview was the result of divine intervention or supernatural influence.

And to top it all off, no one knew she'd been looking for a new job, including herself. She liked her staff position at the Office of the State Archeologist. She worked, enjoyed hiking and camping, took freelance photography assignments for several magazines and tried to stay unencumbered by relationships with members of the opposite sex.

A wanderlust for travel, combined with her photography side job, had taken her from the Grand Canyon to Niagara Falls and from Jack London's gold fields in the Yukon to Ernest Hemmingway's Florida Keys. While taking pictures at a re-enactment of the Battle of Vicksburg in Mississippi she discovered the delights of traveling by vintage steam train and after that, sought vacation get-aways with access to at least one scenic train ride. Her attachment to trains was an inexplicable as her connection to that old picture in her grandmother's parlor.

At age 26, she wasn't interested in settling down. The mommy track held no attraction and while she'd been in plenty of friends' weddings and had the closet full of bridesmaids gowns to prove it, watching their domestic bliss unfold only solidified her resolve that it was not for her. She didn't plan to live and work in Iowa forever, she just hadn't gotten around to doing anything about it. Job-hunting was a certified pain in the butt.

The wild west job, as she and her friends called it, had come out of the blue. The very fact of its haphazard arrival was yet another coincidence that piqued Nick's insatiable curiosity and determination to follow it through.

"Hey, Kincaid, this came in the mail for you." Her boss had sent the letter sailing onto her desk. "It's another posting from that crazy university job exchange listing I'm on. Only it's addressed to you, dunno how they got your name specifically."

Nick's breath caught in her throat as she read the letter. The University of Wyoming needed an assistant for an archaeological dig in Laurel County. Once, in a fit of nostalgic genealogical curiosity, she'd researched the Rocking K, using the few precious facts she knew about her family from five generations ago. The ranch was located five miles from the proposed dig site. That was another coincidence.

With the letter glowing like a neon sign on her desk, she'd dove back online, coffee mug clenched between nerveless fingers, mind spinning. Could this be real? It was like someone was reading her mind. She'd always wanted to go there, ever since her grandfather said those words when she was a teenager.

" _You've got his eyes."_

Whenever she'd planned her vacations, though, her travel-mates always wanted to go other places. Coyote Hollow or whatever the place was called appealed to no one but her.

Nick had replied to the mysterious Dr. A. Gordon immediately, as if she stopped to think about it, the letter would self-combust like a scene in an old spy thriller, taking with it the tale that had lingered in the back of her mind for years.

Thanks to her parents' repeated casual dismissal of her family tree, Nick had never gotten serious about her lineage. Yeah, Grandpa Charlie's romantic story might be nothing more than that but suddenly it mattered to her with a desperation bordering on obsession. The minute Nick received a reply from Dr. A. Gordon confirming the time and place of the interview, she started sifting through the ashes of time.

Whether or not she got the job, she decided resolutely, she would spend some time exploring Laurel County. She would enjoy the trip, see the scenery and then she would get on with her life. That's what Kincaids did, right? Grandpa used to joke the family motto was "Life is meant to be lived going forward."

She just wanted to know . . . what _did_ she want to know? It was like hunting ghosts. What did she think she would find when she got there? She knew precious little about the man and woman who according to all legal documents were her great-great-great-great-grandparents, let alone the mysterious man whose name, if her grandpa had been telling the truth, should have been written in the family Bible as the father of Jessie's first son. Like that would have happened in those days, she thought. She'd seen that Bible, yellowed with time, the pages foxed and fly-specked but radiating an unarguable sense of family honor.

 _Samuel James Kincaid, born May 23, 1873, son of William Samuel and Jessica Emilie McCallister Kincaid, Rocking K Ranch, Coyote Falls, Wyoming._

Kincaid. Not West. But still, Samuel _James_ Kincaid. Did that mean anything? It made her head hurt.

Why did it even matter? Her mind had teased around the delicious elements of mystery and scandal since she was 14. A reckless young woman and a handsome lawman falling into one another's arms for a night of passion that had started her lineage? It was probably nothing more than a seductive daydream, she told herself, but what the hell. She was going to Wyoming. Her curiosity wouldn't let go of it until she'd learned everything she could. It was that same sense of purpose that landed her photos on several national magazine covers and drove her through the heat and mud and insect bites of excavations to unearth artifacts that helped forgotten generations tell their stories.

Determined not to go empty handed, Nick poured through the virtual dust of online museum archives and miles of microfilm until her eyes ached, carefully tracing her family tree in reverse. She read land office records, contacted genealogy societies in Wyoming and corresponded with historical commissions, gleaning information from their endless databases. The internet put a global village at her fingertips and her appetite was ravenous.

A few things backed up Grandpa Charlie's story with unarguable solidity. She found a reference to the Robin Hood gang in a Historical Society of Wyoming database but it was frustratingly brief, little more than a few paragraphs referencing a series of thefts and fires along the Trouble River in the summer of 1872.

Then the names leaped off the screen.

"Investigating agents James West and Artemus Gordon resolved the matter with help from locals . . ." The names sent a thrill through her. They were real. They were _real!_ She'd been unable to stop, staying up late at night to search online records, the glow of her laptop illuminating the living room of her small apartment.

She'd done a cursory genealogical trace on both men. Gordon had married several years after the escapade in Wyoming. His descendants had been fairly easy to follow. West? Not so much. He hadn't married and she could find no confirmed descendants. Nick had raised her eyebrows at that. If what her grandfather had told her was true, there'd been descendants all right and she saw one of them every time she looked in the mirror.

On the other hand, Jessica and William's marriage certificate had been filed in the Laurel County courthouse. They were both buried in the Sumner Township Cemetery, near the Rocking K.

But there was no record of them being arrested for involvement with the Robin Hood Gang. Just like her grandpa said, they'd never been formally charged or stood trial or done jail time for anything associated with the gang's activities. There was nothing to indicate they'd come within a country mile of those events.

Her mind poked at the facts with a scholar's skepticism. Had Grandpa Charlie been pulling her leg after all? Teasing her with a story he concocted to explain why she had eyes as blue as turquoise when the rest of her family's were jade green or peat brown? It wasn't that big of a deal, was it? She didn't understand the intricacies of genetics but just because all of her relatives on her dad's side shared two common eye colors while hers were totally different didn't make her some kind of black sheep, did it?

She'd felt the inexplicable pull of Wyoming like a siren song the whole time she was doing research. She just hoped that song wasn't luring her to crash onto the rocks. Finally, she'd packed her laptop, her files of notes and pointed her Jeep west.

And now here she was.

In the small, clean room of the Travelodge in Laramie, Nick pulled a flannel shirt over a thermal Henley. _Come dressed to work in the field._ What kind of interviewer gave instructions about what to wear? She'd given up counting oddities by now. There were too many. The interview was set for evening. She didn't expect they'd head out to the dig site so late in the day but she wasn't arguing. Jeans and boots beat heels and hose any time. Dr. A. Gordon sounded like an imminently practical man.

The family tree lay on the desk next to her bag. She didn't know why she'd brought it with her. She'd studied it so much in the last month she had the thing committed to memory.

She'd done the math in her head a dozen times. Jessie and Will were married in October. Samuel had been born seven months later and had obviously been carried full term. A baby born two months prematurely never would have survived in those days, so Jess was about two months pregnant when she married Will. Well, Nick supposed, those things happened. It wasn't proof of anything, except maybe that her great-great-great-great-grandmother hadn't shared 19th century society's view that the marriage bed was the only appropriate place for a woman to _know_ a man.

Samuel went on to marry and produce sons, who produced her grandfather, her father and eventually her. If that held any significance, it escaped her. It wasn't like she was the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter or anything alleged to hold magical powers. She was just an Iowa farm kid who'd driven for two days straight to see for herself the land where her ancestors lived 150 years ago. And to interview for a vague job with the equally vague Dr. Gordon.

A glance out the motel window showed clear blue skies. Nick smiled in spite of her ongoing confusion about her family tree. She felt like a kid on Christmas morning. The excitement that had been building since she crossed the Wyoming border yesterday was close to bubbling over.

She was here. She was finally here. Was it fate that Dr. Gordon wanted to meet at Coyote Falls, so very, very close to where her ancestors had homestead? Now that this inexplicable desire to connect with the past was about to become reality, it consumed her like a fever.

It was silly to be this excited. She knew exactly who she was. Nichole Kincaid, daughter of Edward and Maggie Kincaid. Born and raised in the Hawkeye state. A law-abiding, tax-paying citizen whose biggest adventure, to date, had been a trip to Scotland with two girlfriends last summer. Now she'd driven all the way out here to look at . . . what?

She knew there probably weren't any original buildings left at the ranch. The property had been sold years ago as the Kincaids scattered to the winds. Her grandfather had moved to Iowa as a child with his family during the Great Depression, leaving the windswept landscape of Wyoming for the rich farmland of the Iowa River valley and a climate more moderate than the howling blizzards and scorching heat of the northern plains.

But she was drawn here nonetheless. Just to see where it had all started. Nick shrugged into a jacket and hoisted her bag over her shoulder. She reached for the black Hawkeye baseball cap on the dresser. It was the hat she always wore in the field, or at least the most recent incarnation. Her hats had a way of getting lost or destroyed in her line of work. She studied her reflection in the mirror as she arranged her ponytail. Long, dark brown hair with red undertones, porcelain fine skin, cleanly chiseled cheekbones and a strong jaw. Her father always teased that when she set her jaw, things were going to happen.

And those aquamarine eyes.

It was just a family tale, an amusing story to tell a child fascinated by an old photograph, she reminded herself firmly. What if she really was the fifth-generation descendant of a blue-eyed Secret Service agent who'd had a one-night tryst with her four-times-over grandmother? What possible impact could that have on her life?

Nick checked out of the Travelodge and tossed her luggage into her Jeep. She put the key in the ignition, then paused. Her hand slid back into her vest pocket, fingers closing over the object that had become a sort of talisman over the last few weeks.

She looked down at the silver concho dangling from a leather thong. It was a bit of trim off an old-fashioned saddle. The intricate design had been smoothed by nearly a century and half of wear but she could still imagine it newly cast and polished, sparkling in the sun from the skirt of the saddle atop a fine horse. The metal seemed to glow at her touch. Grandpa Charlie had given it to her the summer he'd given her a copy of the family tree. Or at least the Kincaid version of the family tree, which she thought was subject to editing. She'd put them in box with her other childhood treasures and ignored them. Until now.

Yeah. This was going to be the oddest job interview ever. Nick draped the leather thong over the rearview mirror. The concho swung gently as she pulled the Jeep onto the highway and started the drive that would take her to Coyote Falls.

 **TBC**


	13. Chapter 13

**Epilogue II**

 **Coyote Falls, Wyoming**

The modern version of the Crooked Arrow Saloon was sited in its forerunner's original structure on Coyote Falls' main thoroughfare. The building had served as an entertainment establishment in one form or another, ranging from bar to brothel to dance hall, through the decades. The furnishings came and went in the style of the times but the massive oak bar remained in place because it was so heavy no one wanted to mess with hauling it out.

The structure's façade had endured the rigors of time as well, including two near misses by tornadoes and a fire that incinerated much of the business district. Given the structure's remarkable penchant for longevity, the current owners had jumped on the historic preservation bandwagon and given the building a facelift inside and out. Restored to much of its original 1870s glory, the result rivaled anything a Hollywood set designer could have created.

Nick shook her head at the sense of familiarity as she pulled her Jeep into the line of dusty pickup trucks in front of the bar. In spite of the neon beer signs glowing in the windows, a horse tied to the hitching post wouldn't have looked out of place. The quiet street in the quiet little town felt welcoming. She'd never been here before – why did it seem so familiar?

Her boots rang hollowly on the wooden boardwalk. A few blocks away, where the city limits faded to open country, she could see the distant foothills wrapped in soft, blue shadows. Right here, this town, this county, this land, was where her family started 150 years ago, she thought. One way or the other. The words of an old John Denver song rang through her mind.

" _Coming home to a place he'd never been before . . ."_

Yeah, that was exactly how she felt. Taking a deep breath, she stepped through the bar's front door and entered the neon world of a working class tavern on a Friday night. Country western music blared from a jukebox in the corner and the sound of balls being racked and broke came from pool tables at the far end of the room. A short-order kitchen was visible through a set of swinging doors, the scent of burgers and fries mingling with the clean smell of sawdust on the floor. Nick felt the momentum of the bar stop briefly as patrons paused to look at the newcomer, then returned to their drinking and socializing.

Feeling a little self-conscious, she scanned the room. She had no idea what Dr. Gordon looked like and didn't see anyone waving a sign over their head to that effect. She wondered, briefly, how he would know who she was in turn, then remembered her photo was on her current employer's website. Anonymity was hard to come by in this day and age.

The bar was half full, mostly locals from the looks of it. Their faded denim and scarred boots had the air of genuine use, not the shiny newness of tourists playing at being cowboys. Nick's own well-worn flannel and scuffed boots let her blend in. No wonder Dr. Gordon had recommended against formal interview attire. She'd have stood out like a whore in church in a tailored suit and heels.

The room was furnished with worn wooden tables and chairs. Half a dozen booths lined one wall and a staircase with a polished wooden banister led to second story rooms. A brass placard on the wall informed readers the building had served as a saloon, hotel and brothel before the turn of the 20th century. A massive oak bar with a brass foot rail ran the length of one wall, an age-crackled mirror reflecting the evening's crowd. Nick glanced up, saw her image, and again that odd sense of déjà vu swept over her. She didn't have time to ponder it. The barkeeper, a plump middle-aged woman, waved a friendly hand in greeting.

"What can I get you, hon?"

Nick thought carrying a beer into a job interview – even _this_ job interview - might not be appropriate. She opened her mouth to ask for a soda when someone called her name.

"Miss Kincaid?"

She turned toward the voice. A dark-haired woman about her age had risen from one of the booths. She wore a red University of Wyoming sweatshirt and faded jeans, her hair cropped in a pixie cut that curled stylishly across her forehead. Nick had no idea who she was but felt an electric jolt run through her as she met the woman's eyes. They were dark brown and like the bar itself, echoed with a sense of inexplicable familiarity.

Nick blinked, trying to get a grip. The feeling stayed, an odd surge of joy, like she was reuniting with a soulmate she hadn't seen in a long time. She looked around the bar, then at her watch. It wasn't quite 7 p.m. Maybe Dr. Gordon wasn't here yet. The woman motioned again, clearly wanting Nick to join her. How had she known who she was? Nick wove her way through the tables toward the booth, still mesmerized by the sensation of familiarity.

The woman looked her up and down and nodded approvingly.

"I see you took my instructions to heart. Good. The last candidate I interviewed for the position showed up in a Halston suit with four-inch heels. Of course I had no intention of hiring her because I'd finally found you but, um, well," she paused and grinned apologetically, "I was afraid you might change your mind and not come after all."

Nick made a concerted effort to keep her jaw from dropping.

"I'm Dr. Anne Gordon." The woman held out her hand. Nick shook it, still in a daze. "Please, call me Anne. Do you prefer Nichole or Nicky?"

Reality slammed into her and it was Nick's turn to look apologetic.

"Nick, please. No one ever calls me Nichole and I haven't been Nicky since high school." She paused, aware she was still gripping the woman's hand, and let it go. "It's good to meet you Dr. - Anne. I'm sorry, I was expecting . . . oh, never mind."

"A man? Don't apologize." Anne waved a hand dismissively. "My own fault, really, for using an initial, not a name. I do it on purpose." She shrugged. "We're supposed to be so evolved as a species but in the world of academics, sometimes it's better to keep them guessing. You want a beer?" Without waiting, she caught the bartender's eye and raised two fingers.

As Anne turned back to the booth, Nick saw her falter slightly and wince.

"Are you all right?"

The other woman pulled a wry face.

"I fell in a hole at a dig last month – got in a hurry, trying to do too many things at once." She waved it off. "It's just a sprain, mostly healed but it catches me off guard if I step the wrong way. More proof I really need someone to have my back."

Nick slung her bag onto the seat and sat facing Anne.

"This sounds stupid but I feel like I should know you," she said slowly. "Have we met before? At a conference or an exhibit opening?"

Anne beamed, a smile breaking over her face with genuine delight.

"Our great-great-great-great-grandfathers were partners."

Nick's mind did another double-take. Honestly, she was going to have mental whiplash if this continued. Dr. Gordon was Artemus Gordon's four-times-great-granddaughter? So the name _wasn_ 't a coincidence after all, which gave credence to Grandpa Charlie's tall tale. Or his corrected version of the Kincaid family history, depending on who you asked. But how did a stranger know about that?

The bartender set two longneck bottles on the scarred tabletop. Nick took an automatic drink, as much to buy time as because she hoped alcohol might help her sort things out.

"But how . . ." she began, then decided to abandon the tangled web of genealogy and took a different track. "How did you find me? About the job, I mean. I wasn't looking for a job but this was . . ."

 _This was too hard to put into words_ , she though.

". . . too perfect to ignore," Anne finished for her.

"Yeah." Nick nodded slowly. "It was too perfect to ignore. I've always wanted to come out here."

Anne's expression was rapt. Her gaze took in Nick's face, her black baseball cap, worn flannel shirt and insulated vest before coming back to her eyes. Her smile grew bigger.

"God. Now I know what Artemus meant when he wrote about his partner's stunning blue eyes. If there was ever any doubt, that should seal the deal. Samuel was definitely James' son and those genes got handed down through the generations."

Nick froze. She glanced around the room. It looked like any other small town bar on a Friday night. Men and women drinking, shooting pool, flirting. A guy in the local uniform of blue jeans and boots was leaning against the bar, checking her out. Suddenly she felt uneasy. She looked back at Anne who hadn't taken her eyes from her. This woman was a stranger who knew too much. How could she possibly know about McCallister green and Kincaid brown and a mysterious man with blue eyes from 150 years ago?

"Look," Nick said, "I don't know who you are or what you're talking about. I think this may have been a mistake." She shifted to pick up her bag.

"Don't leave, Nick," Anne said quietly. "Please. I'm sorry if I freaked you out. I was just so happy to find you . . . and . . . well . . . I know what happened back then – between James West and Jessie McCallister - and if I were you, I'm not sure I would have believed it either. But when I saw you, I knew the journal was telling the truth." She reached across the table and gave Nick's hand a quick squeeze. Again, Nick felt the sensation of companionship that was older than time itself. She relaxed marginally.

"You've heard the story, right?" Anne continued, her face earnest. "You know who your real great-great-great-great-grandfather is." It wasn't a question.

Nick took a deep breath.

"My grandpa told me the story when I was 14. My parents blew it off, they never wanted to talk about it. I wanted to believe it but I'm not sure I ever really did. How do you know about . . . everything?"

"My great-great-great-great-grandfather was Artemus Gordon. He kept very detailed journals on the unclassified aspects of his and his partner's assignments." She took a pull on her beer. "You were one of them."

Nick nearly choked. She set her bottle down hastily.

"One of what!"

"One of those unclassified aspects." Anne raised her eyebrows. "Or at least Jessie McCallister was."

The woman's expression was genuine. She didn't look like a fruitcake.

"Go on," Nick said slowly.

"Judging from Artemus' journals, James was, among other things, quite the lady's man," Anne said. "He was never lacking for an opportunity to . . . um . . . enjoy women's company. He and your four-times-great-grandmother spent one night together and it was spectacular enough he told Artemus about it. That in itself was unusual, I believe. He may have been a rogue but he was always careful about a lady's reputation." She stopped and snorted. "Although he obviously wasn't so careful about some other details. Who knows? Maybe they did use some form of contraception. Nothing is 100 percent safe and back in those days, it was even less so." Anne made a dismissive gesture. "Whatever. I don't think he and Jessie ever saw each other again after that night but she was carrying his child."

Nick stared at her, the story she'd questioned for so long suddenly ringing with the clarity of truth.

"So it's really true? The crazy story my grandpa told me? I'm . . . really . . ."

"You're James West's four-times-great-granddaughter."

Neither woman spoke. On the jukebox, Garth Brooks sang about friends in low places. The man at the bar who'd been checking her out lifted his beer in greeting. Nick ignored him.

"I thought it was just a crazy family story," she said softly. "Did James ever know about the child? I mean, if he and Jessie went their separate ways?"

"He knew but I think he was too honorable to muddy the waters," Anne said.

Nick blinked in confusion. She was starting to wonder if she would ever _not_ be confused. No wonder her parents chose to leave the past in the past. Trying to puzzle things out a century and a half later could make a person crazy.

"Jessie's husband, Will Kincaid, wrote a letter to Artemus after the baby was born," Anne said. "In it, he said Jessie didn't want to contact James, that part of her life was behind her and she didn't want him to feel obligated to her or the child in any way but Will thought he should know. He told told Artemus about their marriage and the baby and said he would leave it up to him whether or not to tell James, since he knew him well enough to predict how he'd take it."

"So Artemus must _not_ have told him?" Nick said, puzzled. "Surely, if he'd known there was a baby he would have sent money for the child's support at the very least."

Ann studied her beer, then spoke slowly.

"Their night together was a one night-stand and neither of them had expectations of anything beyond that. They were attracted to each other from the start, although according to Artemus' journal entries, it certainly wasn't love at first sight. In fact, I don't think they were in love at all. It was a matter of mutual physical attraction but that's as far as it went. Jessie and Will fell in love in the aftermath of her stepfather's death. Both James and Artemus had moved on with their business by then.

"So to answer your question, I think Artemus _did_ tell James about the baby but in those days, having a baby by a man you didn't marry would have been a huge scandal. James apparently cared about Jessie enough to recognize that walking back into her life would have created a lot of tension between her and Will and a lot of gossip in the community. He knew she'd married, that she and her husband were happy together and the baby was loved and cherished. He'd have done more harm than good by going back to claim the child as his and he knew it. Of course, none of that is written down but I think that's because Artemus was hesitant to record those details for posterity. He wouldn't have wanted to cast aspersions on Jessie's reputation for later generations to misinterpret."

Nick let out a breath she wasn't aware she'd been holding. Cast aspersions on her reputation? It didn't sound like Jessie McCallister gave two damns about her reputation. Still, she had to appreciate James West's handling of the social conventions of the time and Artemus Gordon's foresight not to definitively record facts that could haunt the Kincaid family generations down the line if they fell into the wrong hands. A sudden suspicion grew in her mind.

"How did you find out about all this? You're not a Kincaid. Who told you the stories?"

"No one." Anne's eyes went wide. "I had no idea about any of this until last year. It was almost an accident. You think your family was bad about ignoring genealogy? My parents met at Woodstock, summer of love and all that. I'm lucky they remembered they even had a daughter half the time. I grew up in the dark, just like you. I've always loved America's wild west era and got a double doctorate in archaeology and social anthropology. You'd think someone would have said something about all this to me, but no." She rolled her eyes in exasperation at her family and Nick felt a definite twinge of understanding. "Last year, I inherited Artemus' journals and some other miscellaneous correspondence when a great-aunt died - Mildred or Mable or something like that."

"Maude," Nick said without thinking.

"Yeah, that was it! It's a family name – I'm probably lucky I got named Anne and not Maude. How'd you know?"

"I don't know," Nick said honestly. "It just popped into my mind. What happened when your great-aunt died?"

"I ended up with a great big steamer trunk of journals and papers and stuff no one else wanted. They were going to throw it out so I hauled it back to my place. It took me six months to read through everything and another six to work through the genealogy and then track you down. Since James never married, I couldn't find any reference to other children, just what Artemus had written about Jessie and Will and Samuel. Not that there weren't any other kids, given James' um, romantic habits, but you're the only one I could find and when it turned out we work in the same field, I couldn't rest until I met you."

"So you lured me out here on the pretense of a job? Isn't that a little stalkerish?" Nick's mind was in turmoil. It was one thing to have childhood fantasies about ancestors who worked for the Secret Service and tamed the west. It was another thing entirely to find out your last name and the genealogy that went with it had been incorrectly recorded for the last century and a half. She was no more a Kincaid than the Pope was Wiccan.

"Stalkerish? Maybe." Anne looked a little abashed. "But there really is a job," she added hastily. "I didn't drag you out here just to chat about your family tree. I really do need an assistant. Oh who am I kidding? I fall in holes when there's no one around to keep an eye on me. I need a partner! And not just for the dig this summer, but full-time at the University. I just put in that bit about a post-dig evaluation in case . . . in case . . ."

"In case I turned out to be a world class bitch and you couldn't stand me?"

"Yes." Anne broke into a delighted smile. "But I knew you wouldn't be, I just knew it. You've got a great resume, you'd be perfect for the job. I need someone to help coordinate field work during the dig season and finesse permission to dig at new sites, write grants, organize collections and all that stuff during the winter. It's a small department at UW. Everyone wears a lot of hats and I really need a partner I can trust."

Nick's mind spun again. Or maybe it had never quit. _Weird_ interview didn't even come close. Her hesitation must have shown.

"I know it's a lot all at once. Here. If you still don't believe me, read this." Anne rummaged in a battered briefcase and pulled out a file folder. Opening it, she held out several photocopied sheets. Nick took them. The pages were covered with neat, old-fashioned script. Slowly, she read:

" _24 Aug., 1873: Rc'd a missive from Mr. Wm. Kincaid, Rocking K Ranch, Wyo. Territory. The post found us as we were stopped at Ft. Worth to take on fuel and water on our way to Amarillo where we are to investigate the disappearance of, of all things, a rare white tiger given as a gift to the territorial governor by a visiting dignitary from the Dark Continent._

 _Am thankful I was here to receive the post as J has become increasingly suspicious about mail delivered directly to the Wanderer. I suppose he is justified since one of our arch enemies continues to try exterminating us and nearly succeeded only last week, had it not been for J's keen eye and the fact the package in question was not only hot to the touch but emitting noxious fumes upon its delivery. It summarily exploded after he hurled it through the window, which unfortunately was closed at the time. Col. R. was not pleased with yet another repair bill but calmed down after I pointed out the alternative would have resulted in a tremendous amount of paperwork on his behalf to settle our estates._

" _But I digress. I was eager to read Mr. K's correspondence since I often wondered what transpired after J and I put Wyoming at our backs and returned to the more civilized world, having been assigned to New Orleans immediately after concluding the Robin Hood Gang case. Mr. K. had struck me as an honorable, hard-working, resourceful gentleman, the kind of which are perfectly at home amidst that wild land. The same could be said for Miss Jessica McCallister, a young woman of stalwart fortitude and no small number of skills._

" _Mr. K's words brought several surprises, not the least of which was his marriage to Miss McCallister in October of last year. J and I shared any number of adventures with her during the resolution of the aforementioned case and I daresay she and my partner got to know one another quite well before we departed the territory. This came as no surprise to me, as they were somewhat kindred spirits in spite of their initial aversion to one another."_

Nick snorted and looked up at Anne. The dark haired woman grinned.

"Let me guess, you're at _'got to know each other quite well,_ ' right? See, I told you Artemus was careful with whatever he put in writing. He never comes right out and says they _knew_ each other in the Biblical sense."

" _Mr. K. announced the birth of their first child, a fine, strong son, born in May of this year. He noted, with apparent cheerful acceptance of the fact, this was nine months after the conclusion of the Robin Hood case and only seven months after his marriage to the child's mother. He also noted the baby has piercing blue eyes. The implication of these facts are not lost on me. He requested me to disclose this information to J if I felt it would be prudent to do so, with the understanding Mr. K. was not attempting to extort any financial gain by doing do and simply felt J should be aware he had fathered a child._

" _After much consideration, I broached the subject with J as I agreed with Mr. K. that something of this nature should be brought to his attention. When I told him of the child, I could tell he was deeply moved by the revelation. He was quiet for some time, which is not unusual when he is contemplating a course of action, and I could tell from the look in his eye he was giving the matter considerable thought. He did not say much and I do not know if he ever corresponded with Mr. K. I am inclined to believe he may have felt it was in the best interests of all parties to let the past stay in the past, as the child was born into a loving family and J's own vagabond tendencies were not well-suited to fatherhood."_

Nick let the paper drop to the table.

"Do you think they told him - Jessie and Will, I mean – do you think they told Samuel when he was old enough to understand? They seem like such straight forward people, I think they would have wanted him to know who his birth father was, don't you? Just to set the record straight."

Ann pushed her bottle around, smudging the ring of condensation on the table.

"I think they must have. The story got handed down on your side of the family, didn't it, so it must have come from Samuel. I imagine Jessie and Will told him but made sure he understood the importance of protecting his mother's good name. His parents would have been long in their graves before the story started getting tossed around the family dinner table, don't you think?" Anne was silent for a while before continuing.

"As near as I can tell from reading the journals, young Samuel never made any effort to contact James. To him, he must have seemed like little more than a figure in a story. Even if Samuel was curious about it, he loved his mother and didn't know any father other than Will," Anne mused. "If they told him of his real parentage, he'd never have done anything to cast doubt on his mother's morals. There's nothing in any of Artemus' later journals about it and believe me, he was a detailed writer."

"I can tell you've given this a lot of thought." Nick had, too, but she hadn't had nearly as much source material to work with.

"Yeah. I have. Well, what do you think?"

"About this?" Nick pushed the copied journal entry to the center of the table with a forefinger as if it might explode like the package her four-times-great-grandfather had chucked through a window a century and a half ago. "About finding out who my great-great-great-great-grandfather really was? Or about taking the job?"

"Either one."

Nick didn't say anything.

"They were real, you know," Anne said quietly. "They sound like something straight out of Hollywood but I'll let you read Artemus' journals if you want. You won't believe some of the things those men did. And that's only the unclassified stuff. We'll never read the official reports they filed with Washington. Artemus was an inventor, too. He created all sorts of crazy gadgets and stuff they used to resolve their cases."

She turned and reached again into her voluminous briefcase. After a moment's digging, she set a small glass bottle on the table. The iridescent green contents shimmered mesmerizingly.

Nick picked it up.

"What's this?"

"I'm not sure, exactly but – oh no, no, no! Don't open it!" Anne said hastily when Nick started to unscrew the lid. "I did that exact thing and sniffed it, thought it might be lotion or perfume or something. Holy shit. I woke up three hours later with my cheek stuck to my desk with drool."

Nick hastily set the bottle down and stared at Anne.

"And these." Anne gently placed a handful of what looked like dull brown walnuts on the table.

Nick started to pick one up, then stopped. If Anne was carrying them around in her bag, they couldn't be too dangerous, could they?

"Just don't drop one," Anne said, as if reading her mind.

Nick poked the sphere with the tip of her finger. It rolled lazily in an unbalanced ellipse before stopping.

"Why? What happens?"

Anne looked around but no one was within earshot.

"The damn things blow up!" she said in a hissed whisper.

"Seriously?"

"Yes! They were stored in a cardboard box with all the stuff I inherited from my great-aunt. One fell out when I opened the box. They're not really explosives, just some kind of smoke bomb thingie, but it scared my dog half to death and I felt like I'd done 30 minutes of cardio in 15 seconds. And that's not all. I've got a whole bunch of other stuff at home that belonged to the men. I don't know what half of it is and to tell you the truth, it kind of scares me. I think some of it was James', at least from what Artemus wrote in his journals. There's a set of lock picks and some knives. And – oh, you'd just have to see it to believe it." She paused. "It's yours if you want it, whether you take the job or not."

Nick didn't know what to say.

"I think I need another beer," she said honestly.

"Why don't you ladies let me buy?"

Anne shoved the walnuts out of sight behind a bowl of popcorn as Nick looked up to see the man from the bar leaning against their table. He hadn't been attractive at a distance and his looks hadn't improved with proximity.

"Thanks," Anne made a go-away motion, "but we're not interested."

The man leered at her and planted his hands on the edge of the table, swaying slightly.

"Whassa matter?" he slurred. "Ain't I good enough for you two college girls? Nuf of me to go around, if you know what I mean."

"No, thanks," Nick said firmly. When he showed no sign of leaving, she added, "This is a private conversation."

"Name's Donny." The man gripped Nick's upper arm with a hand the size of a ham. "How 'bout you and me go somewhere there ain't no need for conversation."

"How about you take your hands off me," Nick said levelly. Across the table, Anne shifted to the edge of her seat.

Donny leered.

"Bring your friend along and we'll have us a real party."

"Let go of me."

"Or what?"

Nick sighed. She exchanged a _you've got to be kidding me_ look with Anne. An unspoken agreement passed between them.

"Or I won't be responsible for what might happen," Nick said through gritted teeth. It wasn't a complete lie. She had no idea what might happen.

"Pretty li'l thing like you don't scare me." Donny's expression was confident. "Bet you like a man with a strong hand."

"What I like is none of your business."

Under the table, Nick lashed her booted foot out at the man's shin. The blow wasn't as powerful as it could have been, due to the awkward angle, but Donny howled in pain and let go of her arm. She flattened her back to the wall of the booth and kicked out with both feet, hitting him full in the belly. It was like kicking a sack of wet cement. He grunted and staggered backward, crashing into the table behind him. Before Nick could get out of the booth, Donny got his feet under him and lunged for her with surprising agility.

Aside from punching her cousin, Nick had never been in a fight before but she'd dealt with more than one beer-soaked wannabe Romeo during her undergrad days. Adrenaline shot through her system, honing her reflexes. She scrambled out of the booth and sidestepped the man's clumsy grab, only to find herself backed up against the wall. Donny lumbered toward her then stopped with a sudden look of surprise. Nick heard the smack of wood connecting with flesh as Anne swung a pool cue against the back of his thighs. He howled and turned on her. Anne back-pedaled, took a misstep and staggered as her ankle gave out. She tumbled onto the floor, struggling to right herself as their unwanted suitor advanced menacingly. Nick danced around him, drawing his attention.

"Hey! Leave her alone!"

Donny turned from Anne and focused again on Nick. She tried to put a nearby table between them but he snagged the sleeve of her shirt and before she could react, pulled her into an embrace.

Nick was vaguely aware of the bar patrons observing the goings-on with casual interest. Apparently dust-ups of this nature weren't uncommon here. Wild west indeed, she thought.

"Damn, you're a feisty little thing, ain't you?" Donny gripped her chin and tipped her face up.

"Oh don't even . . ."

Nick channeled every self-defense class she'd ever taken on campus. She brought the flat of her hand up hard under his jaw, snapping his head backward, and drove her knee into his groin at the same time. He grunted and let go of her, his momentum toppling him backwards. He landed with a crash that would have registered on the Richter scale.

Nick reached down, caught Ann's wrist and pulled her upright. She winced, favoring her ankle and rubbing her backside.

"You okay?" Nick asked.

"Yeah. What's one more bruise. You?"

"I'm fine – oh for the love of God!"

Behind them, Donny had clambered to his feet and was lurching toward them. Nick's rejection had threatened his masculinity, both figuratively and literally, and his friendly drunk demeanor had deteriorated. Nick swallowed hard. This was about to go south in a hurry. Anne noticed it as well and took a limping step backward, gripping a chair for support.

"Bitches," Donny snarled, storming toward them. "Teach you both a – "

Nick reacted out of instinct. Not turning her head, she reached behind her, fingers scrabbling across the table until they closed over one of the walnuts. With a flick of her wrist, she launched it across the room. It missed Donny by a mile and sailed into the kitchen where it ricocheted off a stainless steel refrigerator, rolled under the grill and detonated. One side of the room was instantly filled with a choking cloud of smoke shot through with a shower of sparks like a Fourth of July firework. The bar reverberated with the impact of the explosion.

Nick swore as a set of Texas longhorn headgear mounted on a nearby beam crashed to the ground, one horn spearing into the wooden planks by Donny's booted foot. He was oblivious, having joined the crush of people rushing toward the smoking kitchen.

Anne clamped a hand over her mouth, dark eyes gone wide in either horror or humor.

"You were right," Nick muttered. "The damn things do blow up." She swept the remaining walnuts into her jacket pocket and threw some money on the table. "Let's get out of here before dumbass gets his second wind." She shoved the photocopied sheets back into Anne's briefcase, then grabbed it and her own bag. Anne took a faltering step toward the door and grimaced.

"It's this ankle. I know I can walk it off, I just can't go very fast."

"Here, lean on me."

Anne grabbed Nick's shoulder and they made their way out the front door unnoticed. Behind them, the Crooked Arrow's clientele inspected the damage, voicing opinions that the buildup of grease on the grill and accumulation of dust bunnies underneath it had finally reached critical mass, causing the explosion.

Neither of the women spoke until they reached Nick's Jeep half a block away. Anne hobbled the last few feet to collapse against the fender. She flexed her ankle experimentally.

"I don't know what just happened there," Nick said. "I punched my cousin once when I was a kid - he deserved it – but I'm really not the violent type."

"Me either," Anne said. "I've never clubbed anyone with a pool cue in my life. I don't know what came over me."

Nick looked up and down the quiet street. The strains of "It Ain't My Fault" drifted out of the bar.

" _. . . blame the two-for-one tequilas for whatever happens next but it ain't my fault . . ."_

She scuffed the toe of her boot in the dirt, trying to bite back a grin. She failed.

"I've never blown up anything in my life, either."

"You enjoyed that, didn't you?"

Nick paused, the realization settling over her.

"Yeah. I kinda did."

"You're crazy," Anne said.

"Says the woman who goes around clubbing men with a pool cue." Nick leaned her elbows against the Jeep's hood. She tipped her head back and closed her eyes. "I'm blaming genetics. Now that I finally know for sure." She kept her eyes shut, enjoying the cool night breeze against her cheeks. When she opened them again, Anne was studying her, her face a blend of patience and apprehension.

"So . . . do you want the job?"

"You barely know me. And now you think I'm crazy. Do you want to work with a crazy woman?"

A slow smile spread over Anne's face and she nodded.

"I'll take my chances."

Nick stuck out her hand and Anne gripped it. The air seemed to shimmer around them and Nick felt as if something had clicked into place, like disparate pieces of the universe falling into order.

"I'll take the job. And everything that goes with it."

"Welcome to Wyoming, partner," Anne said.

Just for a second Nick swore she heard the approving rumble of men's laughter and the softer, lilting tones of a woman, then it was gone, replaced by the breeze sighing through the foothills.

 **THE END**

Geez, I hate writing endings. They always feel so lame because the story is over. Ending a chapter is no big deal because the story is going to continue in the next one, right? But **THE END** of the whole thing sounds so final.

I would love this story to go on with the possibility of Jim and Artie being time-warped into the future and meeting their great-great-great-great-granddaughters. Or Nick and Anne going off on grand adventures and discovering skills they weren't aware they possessed. To be honest, that's probably more of an ambitious undertaking than I'm willing to tackle right now. Still, it's out there so never say never.

Thank you for reading and especially for the reviews. I appreciate your time and encouragement. I'm headed back to the South Pacific now, to work on another Black Sheep Squadron story. It's titled "The Legacy" and I hope to start posting in March.


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